K: Midnight
by Eso Niko
Summary: A dark new aura rocks the world of the 7 kings of Japan. An 8th king, the Midnight King, rises up to face them. Meanwhile, Anna Kushina, the newest member of Homra, is not all that she seems. In a story told backward, secrets and betrayal abound in the midst of loyalty and budding love in this new spin on K Project and the clan of the Red King, Mikoto Suoh.
1. Chapter One: Mikoto

K: Project: A K Project Fan Fiction

Chapter One: Mikoto

* * *

_December 20, 2012_

Everything was wrong, horribly wrong. I could see Mikoto still but not like I used to. The image of him, his red, was fragile, barely hanging in the balance between here and nowhere; and in the midst of this, as I sat in Ashinaka High School with Izumo, listening to the uproar outside, I knew that something bad was going to happen.

A moment later, my suspicion was confirmed when once again, I felt Mikoto's presence entering my mind. My consciousness descended to a dreamlike state and that's when it appeared: I'm sorry, Anna, I heard him say. I'm sorry I won't be able to show you that lovely red anymore.

Just then, the realization struck me and I gasped awake, dropping my marbles in a rolling splatter on the floor.

Izumo rushed to me and caught me by the arm, and while I couldn't hear — my thoughts still carried in a dream, the dream that was Mikoto, his voice a whirling echo in my head — I saw Izumo motioning to me. No doubt, he was urging me to tell him what was wrong; and when I failed to answer him, he shook me once, then twice, yet all I did was breathe Mikoto's name before bolting out the door.

Down the hall and out across the concrete yard, conflicting auras — red and blue — surrounding me, I ran. Death and danger toppled in the form of earth and giant slabs of concrete that erupted and cascaded all around, their violent fury countered by the silent flecks of snow that littered every surface of the grounds. Ashinaka was a war zone, and yet I didn't seem to see it, nor could I yet hear it. All I thought about, all I cared about, was him: Mikoto. I had to get to him before it was too late.

Racing over skirmishes like passing street performers — the brawls, the clashes, simple acts I paid no interest to — I vaguely sensed the darting auras whizzing past, and still I made no effort to evade them. I remember thinking clearly that their power couldn't touch me. _Not yet, at least_, I told myself. _Not until I have a chance to save him._

Gradually, I felt my senses trickling back to me. I caught the rhythmic labor of my breathing as it hit the wintry air in hazy little gusts. Even so, the rumbles, booms, the screeches of the battle, were but echoes in my ears; and then a blast above the others shook the earth and threw me to the ground.

I cried out as my outstretched palms collided with the frozen dirt and slid on icy fractals, tearing at my skin. I felt a sudden pounding in my head; my temples throbbed. A line of warmth emerged: the heat of my own blood oozing down my cheek. I fell to instant dizziness, a ringing in my ears. I felt my stomach turning as a reverberative rush swept over me, and then the throes of battle became audible at last. They nearly overwhelmed me, diluting my already foggy consciousness. I teetered forward, shrinking to the ground. Breathing slowly in and out, I shook my head and bat my eyes, focusing my sight and waiting for the dizziness to fade. When it had, I looked around me, searching for the source of what it was that knocked me down, certain it would lead me to Mikoto.

Far into the distance, in a grove, I glimpsed a swarm of nonexistence color whooshing through the trees. It swirled above their prickly tops in contrast to the wind, and by the eerie look of it, I understood exactly what it was. On my own, and without my marbles, I knew. "Mikoto," I said again, and took off toward the grove.

It was a miniature forest, untouched by the battle. The howling of the war began to dissipate behind me as I found myself trampling through dense thickets laden with snow and hidden turrets I fell into here and there, until at last, I came upon a clearing, drenched, battered, and out of breath.

There, I glimpsed a pair of Kings, Mikoto and Reisi, charging one another not a hundred feet away across a frozen pond. Mikoto's Sword of Damocles was surging to the ground, and before I had a chance to venture further, to breathe, or even blink, Reisi cast his saber through Mikoto's chest.

The effect of this was twofold; moreover, instantaneous. The first: Mikoto's sword held fast, hovering mid-air atop the surface of the earth, all veritably still; the second: I myself fell frozen, locked inside a similar kind of hold, that of a mere image. Swiftly, as a thief out of the shadows snatches up its prey, I found it latching onto me, refusing to let go, this vision of another world: a world without Mikoto.

The weight was all-consuming. What other thoughts prevailed before eluded me as agony took root, drowning me beneath a sound I realized was my own voice screaming louder than I ever thought was possible, for in that splitting instant, I had lost myself completely. The world about me vanished like a fog, and all I felt was emptiness and pain. The thought, and then the image of Mikoto, fading into death had spurred on one of my episodes, yet this time, it was nothing like the fits I underwent before. This time, I could feel my power writhing to the surface, shattering the bonds that previously kept it — and the whole of me — contained. No barrier existed anymore. My power was unleashed.

From the pit of my lungs and outward through my lips hung open in that same shrill cry, from the tips of my fingers and the root of my chest, the heart beneath it beating with the wild savagery of life, it soared into the air: a red of uncontrollable wrath: his red: my red. It burst into a rumble, shooting, swaying, twisting to the rhythm of my thoughts. Reaching out a hand, it followed me, answering my will: this force no longer trapped but unequivocally and beautifully freed.

Tightening my fingers in a fist, I clamped my soul-filled aura round the form of Reisi, clutching him, his sword, and thrusting them away. Both flew out of sight into the trees.

My other arm, I cast up toward the sky, and with it, Mikoto's Sword of Damocles shot back into position high above us.

Another flash of red turned the aura black. It darkened into thunderclaps that zoomed around the sword, coiling up and down it as the sword repaired itself.

The aura carried outward after that, weaving down and over me and capturing me whole inside a whirlwind of thick, fiery fumes and electric sparks. Finally, my aura — my true aura — had awakened. I felt my strength return. Blood coursed through my veins, healing me, changing me. As new air fortifies the lungs, so my aura forged in me new life. My little bones were lengthened and solidified; my hair grew long; my features changed. I saw the world grow smaller as I rose at last to face it, once more as I was, radiant with power, my every fibre throbbing with the vigor of expansion and an all-consuming force I knew to be my own. I then stood complete, transformed, finally made whole: the image of my former self alive in me again.

For the first time since the moment Reisi's sword had pierced Mikoto, I saw clearly all that lay before me. I stared across the pond. Mikoto, then released, began to stagger, a stream of blood cascading from his wound to stain the snowy patches at his feet.

I watched him start to fall and felt a burning urge to fly to him, to reach for him, to draw him close to me. No sooner had I thought this than my aura, by way of an answer, produced a pair of ashen raven's wings. They lifted me up off the ground and carried me across the pond, the tips of my feet twirling the fine layer of frost atop the ice as I passed by.

Just as I had wished, I caught Mikoto in my arms and fell along with him, my aura gently buffering the fall. We then lay together, he atop the ground and I on top of him, his head wrapped neatly in my hands.

He winced, eyes closed, as though he were annoyed and not in pain, as though he were asleep and angered at the prospect of being woken. As such, I don't think he cared enough to realize what had happened. But I did, and I wasn't going to let another moment go to waste. In a sudden rush, I felt my aura branching out to him, probing him, feeling for his wound, and quickly finding it. From beneath his bloodied shirt, I saw it start to heal.

A moment passed, color creeping back into his face. His brow relaxed; his tight, convulsive breathing grew to longer, fluid breathes as those of one emerging from the depths of heavy sleep. It was then, I clearly sensed what I had feared was gone forever: a red so warm and lovely, one so utterly majestic both in beauty and destruction, had returned. He had returned.

A shaky sigh, grown heavy as relief consumed me, carried through the air. _I wasn't too late_, I said to myself. _I made it. He's here. He's alive. He isn't gone._

I trembled as I ran my slender fingers through his hair, as though in need of further reassurance. I closed my eyes, feeling as before, Mikoto's presence linked with mine. "Never gone," I whispered quietly. "Never ever gone."

Mikoto must have heard me, for he drew a deep breath in, blinking his eyes open to his Sword of Damocles, clean, perfect, lingering above us. Silently, he gazed at it, frowning, wondering, trying to piece together what had happened, and quickly giving up. He coughed a bit of blood that dripped out from the corner of his mouth, and turned to see my aura circling around us. The red that he had given me was warped across an endless onyx skyline like the branches of a tree aflame at midnight. It too, he seemed to stare at with a sort of disillusionment, as though he failed to grasp what he was looking at.

Then he looked at me, his amber eyes as fiery as ever – those eyes that drew me in the moment I first saw them, the ones I nearly lost. Silently, they pondered me, their force a growing hold inside of me; I eagerly gave in to it. And then they widened somewhat, as those in disbelief, genuine, soft, while something of a gasp escaped his lips. "Anna?"

Instantly, relief turned into anger and I frowned. "Mikoto, you promised," I said low to him.

Mikoto leant his head against the grass, staring at his sword. "Yeah, I lied."

I let loose a bitter scoff. "Idiot."

Mikoto gave his usual 'Humph,' a signal he was fully back to normal, at which, his eye fell back to me — too far, in act, in an overly indulgent downward glance along my chest pressed up to his. It was a lot fuller then, and a good deal more exposed, particularly from his angle. I felt myself blush, remembering at once, my sudden transformation just a few moments before; yet in the midst of this, his unrepentive stare that set my cheeks aflame, his angled brow increased. "Huh. That's weird."

"What's weird?"

"I didn't think it'd happen to you just by killing that guy – the Colorless King. But I guess it makes sense, if you think about it," and for a moment, he was silent. "In the end, it all worked out, just like _he_ said it would."

I let my shoulders drop, scrunching in my brow. Not only was he wrong, but he had to mention Tatara as well. At that, I couldn't help but be annoyed. "You really are an idiot," I said to him.

Again, he'd grown confused, though instead of being angry, I loosed a tender sigh, leaned in close, and kissed him, feeling as I did, a pair of strong, familiar arms creep over me and draw me further in, tighter, and tighter still. Just like before, it seemed, to him, I was never close enough. I didn't mind it then; certainly not now.

"I wasn't going to let you break your promise," I said at last, savoring the warmth of his red intertwined with mine, "especially when the one responsible is still out there."

On hearing this, Mikoto humphed a question as I pulled the last of my marbles from my pocket, holding it an inch above his eye. "See?"

Curious, he frowned at it, watching as the red within it glistened with a tinge of green that danced across his eyes, and instantly, he froze. "Whoa."

* * *

Chapter Two: Colorless

_**Keep in mind that this is a story told backward. Chapter Two takes place a day before the events of Chapter One, and every chapter afterward goes back further in time until we meet Anna on her very first day at Homra. I hope you enjoy it! **_

_**As always, thanks for reading! **_


	2. Chapter Two: Colorless

K: Midnight: A K Project Fan Fiction

Chapter Two: Colorless

* * *

_December 19, 2012_

"When all is said and done, we couldn't have asked for a better king."

Izumo and I watched Mikoto vanish out of sight, leaving us alone, surrounded by the broken fragments of Ashinaka Tower. Night had come, and with it, a silence furthered chiefly by the muted showering of snowflakes dripping lightly from the sky.

"Come on, Anna. Time to go," Izumo said to me, and I took his hand to leave. Though comforting and guarding as he was, I felt it starkly nonetheless: the hand I held was not Mikoto's. It was living, sure enough, but not so full of life, not like the warmth of red I loved so much. It didn't matter who it was. No one — not Izumo, not anyone — could stand against Mikoto in my eyes. The thought of this both soothed and saddened me.

Our steps crunched atop the newly fallen snow, our breath a hollow echo in the air. There was a vague uneasiness: we thought it was the tension of events, and partially it was; but then Izumo twitched and sent his arm protectively before me, his shoulders hunched, his body shielding mine. "Wait," he breathed, peering through his glasses, keen eyes shifting one way, then the other through the dim illumination of the frost.

I realized I was cold all of a sudden, colder than the winter air allowed. It sent a little shiver up my spine. Even Izumo, little warmth that he was compared to Mikoto, went stone frozen and I found us both immobilized, strained and overladen by a force we felt approaching like a viper circling its prey, slithering covertly, inching its way in before the final pounce. Blearily woven into thick, lackluster mists, we heard it whisking through the air, first a gentle breeze, then rising like a gale: a diabolical giggle twiddling around us.

A instant fog rolled in, thick, harrowed, sinister. I knew it all too well. From its inky blackness — the fog more like a fume of toxic sludge — three darkened figures loomed, one on every side. The Shadows had come, and they were not alone.

"Going somewhere, are we?" Toyed the giggle, circling the mist. "But where's the fun in that? Why don't you stay and play with _me!_"

Without command, the Shadows drew katanas in a parallel alignment, the blades themselves the basis of a barrier that locked us in a trifold beam of stunning midnight power. The giggle hovered over us, humming all the while.

Izumo, hardly one for rash actions, calmly swept his hand across the field. A single, graceful flick released a blaze of sparks, a thousand darts of fire, shattering the barrier with one concussive boom. The enveloping fog lay interspersed with reddish fumes of ash.

The Shadows cowered back a pace, coughing through the smoke. Their weapons, rendered useless, clinked in broken shards atop the snow.

Izumo turned to me. "Anna, go!" He ordered, and though I thought to run, my little shoes turned to lead and I froze, my urge to help commanding me to stay; however, a stern, insinuating glance from Izumo said that I was stupid if I thought I had a chance. He was right. What help could I have been? Against a normal enemy, the fact that I was useless was a strain; the fact that this was my enemy made it even worse. Knowing that what I needed to defeat them was the power they possessed had made me hesitant to leave; but of course, that was pointless. Thus weighed by the practicality of the moment — and Izumo's threatening stare — I forced myself to once again withdraw from what I knew I couldn't win. I tore reluctant fingers from his hand and started full-speed toward the largest gap between the Shadows.

I didn't make it very far: perhaps three steps at best before my foot collided with a sudden outstretched limb that brought me tumbling to the ground. Without thinking, I extended both my hands to break my fall and watched as one of my marbles flew up out of my grasp and balanced in the air before my eyes. In the brief instant that it held itself mid-air an inch or two apart from me, I stared intently at it, seeing as I did, the spirit of a fox, as purely white as snow, reflected in its core.

I whipped around to see a fourth Shadow standing over me. He wore a fox's mask, and while I knew that outwardly, this was indeed a Shadow, the image of the fox inside the marble made it clear: this man was but a vessel, and what this vessel harbored was none other than the Colorless King. It was he who tripped me, venturing out of nowhere through the fog, as though he knew that I would seek to run through that specific gap in his defenses, thereby trapping me exactly where he planned. It made me angry at myself that I was fool enough to fall for it.

On hearing the commotion, Izumo spun to view me cornered, at the mercy of the fox. Alarm flashed in his eyes. His impulse was to run to me, to save me, yet in doing so, relinquishing his guard for but a fraction of a second, the others overpowered him with three concurring blasts of midnight aura aimed and fired all at once. Together, they struck with unimaginable might, forcing Izumo down with what appeared to be a horde of slinky coils winding round his form. Cleverly, he thrashed about, searching for a weakness in the coils. He tried to slip away, to blast them off, yet every move he made, the coils themselves — alive, it seemed, and finely tuned to motion — quickly multiplied and dug into his skin. He was trapped.

"Come, now, is this really the best you can do?" The Colorless King degraded us. "This is going to be easier than I thought! What a shame, for I simply crave the excitement of a chase! Don't you?"

Turning back to me, he leant his head, observing me with a quizzical twist of his mask. "At last! Sweet, innocent Anna! How very hard you tried to run, but here we are again!" He twittered mockingly at me. "Silly girl. I can almost feel the last of your power coursing through your tiny little veins! Too bad I didn't get it all the first time. I'll just have to fix that, now won't I?" He reached a hand to touch me, but I cringed and slunk away. "I'm so very hungry!" He whined, his fingers crawling out for me. "Won't you give it to me?! I'm just dying for a taste!"

"Hey Dumbass!" Came a blatant voice behind him, and with it, a ball of fire zoomed through the air, smacking the king in the face.

The fiend keeled over sideways. His mask went flying off to reveal a sly visage contorted with a manic sense of glee, the features giving evidence to something less than human lurking under the skin. Meanwhile, his body zipped about with a dexterity eerily unachievable by man. His abstract form, wedged inside a solid, palpable physique, distorted human inclination into something far more vulgar. Then, like a ghoul, he churned his mangle face and form to view the newest member on the scene.

Several yards away, facing him, was Misaki, bearing a look of annoyance. He cocked his head with an all-too familiar irritability, his bat propped nonchalantly on his shoulder. Snubbing his nose at the Colorless King, his sharp, degrading holler broke the air. "No one defeats Homra that easily," he declared, "'specially not a freak-show like you!" And with that, he slammed his skateboard to the ground, shoving off on a wave of fiery combustion.

He landed hard, his red colliding with the Colorless King, who blocked him well enough this time, his ego-maniacal manner sending twisted fingers in construction of an aura, brightly lit to parry pandemonium with ease.

Rising to hysterics, he let out a delighted squeal. "What's this? Someone willing to play?! Well, do come closer, then! Come and join the fun!" He dipped into a sickly bow and gave a little twirl, producing his own colorless aura in one hand and the midnight aura of his vessel in the other, using both to issue forth the rumbling tornado of blackness and the fluid spirals of translucence to Misaki's ever darting figure bounding through the fog.

He struck at him again and again, sending darts and lightning bolts and cutting gusts of wind. Misaki dodged them all, fending off the blasts with neither board, nor bat, but with evasive cunning, ducking, diving, weaving with an adroit capability until at last, grown eager in his game, the Colorless King released a stream of static bolts like branching fingers through the air. A single line of tension found its mark and knocked the sturdy vanguard off his board.

The Colorless King proclaimed a victory chortle, snatching hold of Misaki with a fist-like beam of power, slamming him against the frosty side of Ashinaka Tower tapered in the dirt.

"_I_ can't defeat _you_, you say?" He chided gleefully. "Well that's too bad, because it looks to me as though you've already been beaten! Or do I have to kill another one of your precious friends to make you realize?" Just then, I saw Misaki's face convulse. "Maybe I'll just kill the little girl as soon as I'm done with her — when there's nothing left! What do you say?!"

"Shut up!" Misaki thundered. His hand, weakly fingering his bat, tightened in a violent rage of passion. He gripped the worn-out handle once again and sent the barrel through the air, issuing a burning line of fire at the king.

The blast gave birth to a mere moment of confusion, allowing him to wrangle himself free and whip back into place atop his board.

Commencing another rash onslaught — this one full of vengeance more explosive than the rest — Misaki's board came crashing down against the Colorless King, engulfing him in flames.

A piercing cry rung out as the king, returning to his spirit form, escaped his willing vessel in a flourish. The Shadow, then released, received the brunt of the burst instead, his body toppling limply like a doll into the mud and upturned pits of grass at my feet.

Following the blow, the giggle zoomed around again. "In the end, your efforts are meaningless against me!" He cried. "Because, you see quite clearly, it is _you_ who cannot defeat _me_! You're merely puppets dancing to the rhythm of my fingers! What a lovely dance it is, wouldn't you say? And so much bigger than your small, pathetic minds can even realize!" His maniacal laugh erupted, ringing shrilly through the clearing. "It won't be long now. Soon, I'll have taken everything! You won't be able to resist!"

He fluttered about, relishing his confidence. His overwhelming triumph gave him zeal enough to take it one step further. Winning wasn't enough for him. He had to prove that we had lost. With this in mind — his twisted, horrid mind — he sought to steal another victim, making straight for Izumo, but he was too late.

Overpowered by my urge to do something, I leapt forward, blocking his path, and — though I swore I'd never revert to it, I could not think of any reason not to — I released my power of phenomenal projection.

The effect was instantaneous. Frantically, he cowered with a pitiful shriek. He sprawled and wriggled through the air in a tumultuous frenzy, the sight of which was wicked and grotesque. He reminded me of a parasite clinging desperately to its host — to any host: to feed, to suck the life from every living creature it could find; but I would not allow it, particularly when that creature was a person I adored. He was not to touch Izumo. He was not to go anywhere near him, not while I was there.

In that brief spans of time that I had seized him, Misaki struck the other three, their power spliced between sustaining Izumo's struggling form and defending their foul leader quickly falling from his former place of triumph. Swooping in, Misaki gained the upper hand and pounded them before they could defend themselves.

"Oh yeah?! Well how does this feel!" He yelled out, his indignation throughly mixed with an eagerness to burn. Bat in hand, he spun himself about, using his momentum to invoke his aura fully in one colossal swing. It was a direct hit. The Shadows' power rapidly deteriorated, the force of Misaki's aura weakening their hold around Izumo.

This temporary lapse allowed Izumo one swift, spark-filled thrust that snapped the snake-like coils into nonexistence, at which, he rose, drew his lighter out, and calmly clicked it open. A brief contraction in the air brought forth a minute silence, a transitory void of motion, and after, an explosion lit the scene, thrusting the still-writhing Colorless King, along with the remaining Shadows, out of sight into the fog. Then all was quiet.

Breathing heavily, Misaki stepped off his board and kicked it up to snatch it. It made a hollow echo that was muffled into silence, the lull of winter snowflakes sucking in the sound. "What the hell…" he groaned out. "That dick's really askin' for it."

Lighting a cigarette, Izumo rose his chin, inhaled, and flicked the lighter shut. "Well he's right about one thing: it won't be long now." He turned to me. "You alright, Anna?"

I stood up, dusting off my dress, and strolled up beside him, nodding once in answer. I was all-too eager to take his hand this time. It didn't seem so lifeless anymore.

"Those bastards," Misaki snarled. "Why'd they keep it such a secret they were working for the Colorless King this whole time? Don't they have any pride in their clan that they'd just come out and say it?"

"It's because they're not his clansmen, anyone can see that," Izumo answered. "Their auras are different. But it's obvious he's controlling them."

Misaki scoffed. "Yeah, but to do what?"

"It doesn't matter right now. We've got to keep Anna safe. That was a lot closer than I wanted it to be."

Misaki, still pissed, scanned his board for scorch marks. "Well if you hadn't'a told me to keep an eye out over here, you really would have been screwed." Finding his possession satisfactorily in one piece, he slid it under his arm, a hard look on his face.

"Speaking of keeping an eye out," Izumo indicated, his underlying tone infused with his infamously vague, yet no less jarring emphasis on ripe intimidation, "you better get going to that other thing I told you to look out for."

Misaki flashed a momentary look of distress before easing back into his natural scowl. "Yeah alright, I'm on it, Mr. Kusanagi." He waved a casual salute and started off in the direction of the trees.

"I think Midnight's gonna come a little earlier next time," Izumo added quietly, almost to himself.

At this point, Misaki stopped, looking over his shoulder, thinking he might have heard something. For a moment, I thought he had, though luckily for Izumo and I, we too had turned to leave, no longer facing our vanguard, and Misaki simply shrugged and disappeared into the mist.

Unperturbed, I stole a glance up to Izumo, watching as he plucked the cigarette from his lips with a steady inhale and twiddled the butt between his fingers. On exhaling, he caught my eye and gave a little smirk. "Just a hunch," he said.

* * *

Chapter Three: Tatara


	3. Chapter Three: Tatara

K: Midnight: A K Project Fan Fiction

Chapter Three: Tatara

* * *

_December 7, 2012_

Lately, I had taken to gazing long hours at the world, though never without a marble resting in between my flame-imprinted pupil and the scenes I looked upon.

There was a sort of vague peculiarity I recognized, staring with an ever-watchful eye. Dimly I saw something, or rather, a sort of nothingness. My vision through the glass was foggy and obscure, as though the world did not entirely exist. A bit of it was fading, had already faded. How much more was destined to slip away? This feeling that I had of ill tidings come to meet me with an uninviting grip: it made me weary to think of it.

I sensed a grand upheaval, one whose repercussions would undoubtedly sever the very fabric of the Slate; and yet, for all my suspicions, I could not find a certainty to it. The future was as hazy as the images I saw inside my marbles.

I sat on Homra's sofa, wrought with contemplation over all the puzzling things I saw (and strictly did not see), when the sound of nearby voices broke the muted silence of my thoughts and Tatara strolled in from the kitchen, followed by Izumo.

"They arrived this afternoon," Izumo was saying. "But we'll have to wait to pass them out until she — "

He was all-at-once cut silent by a giant shushing noise, and a nudge from Tatara stopped them in their tracts. Their features, bearing faces of the accused, wallowed in suspicion, their conversation dying into awkwardness on sighting me not fifteen feet away.

A not-so-subtle parade of gestures, fractured syllables, and stark, insinuating glances sent Izumo in a push across the bar to tidy aimlessly about while Tatara, putting on a smile, whirled around and strutted over to me.

"If it isn't our lovely Princess!" He announced, as though the prior scene had not occurred, obvious as it was. It appeared he meant to keep my birthday celebration a surprise, despite the fact that everybody knew about it.

He plopped down on the coffee table opposite me and my marble. "Better watch out," I saw him say in full (albeit heavily blurred) color through the glass.

I lowered it to look at him, frowning a little. "Why?"

He produced a sprightly grin, the kind he always got when he was having fun with me. "Because if I didn't know any better —"

The door swung open then, cutting off his speech as Saburōta and Shōhei marched uproariously in, Eric trekking several paces behind. While the former pair commenced in animated tones, Eric kept to himself, his hood up, head down, his hands stuffed neatly in his pockets.

Tatara winked at me, conscious of their presence. Holding up a hand, he cupped his mouth as though he meant to tell a secret. "I was going to say, if I didn't know any better, I'd say our princess is already a queen." He paused a moment, watching as I blushed, though not because he flattered me but that he spoke the truth. Nor was I embarrassed that the others might have heard and so discover that same truth. He was careful to have spoken so that only I could hear him, as was subsequently proven by Shōhei. Oblivious to my presence, he hailed Izumo in a yell across the bar.

"Mr. Kusanagi! We just talked to the cake shop! They said it should be ready by — "

Another shush invaded us, yet this one came (to even Tatara's surprise) from Eric, the only member of the three whose face, dipped low, perceived my seated figure on the couch.

Izumo blinked long, perfectly annoyed. "Seriously, boys. Is it even possible for you to take a look around you once in a while?"

"You're one to talk," Tatara smiled at him.

Across from us, Shōhei finally saw me. He stared wide-eyed, crimson with embarrassment as Eric and Saburōta waltzed past him, Saburōta sending off a palm against the back of his head. "Nice going, Pal," he said, chuckling.

"Just sit down," Izumo sighed wearily, waving tired fingers at them. "And try not to mess things up, okay? I swear these boys'll be the death of me someday," he added to himself. Somehow, no one else could hear him, but I did.

At this point, Tatara turned back round to me. "So Anna, are you ready for tomorrow?"

Once again, I drew my marble up, peering at his everlasting smile. It was fuzzier than before. "Are _you_?" I asked.

He laughed at this and he knelt in close, chin in his palm, beaming at me. "You always seem to know whenever I'm hiding something, don't you, Anna?"

"Everyone knows when you're hiding something, Tatara."

He uttered out a dramatized guffaw, but I only stared at him, stoic of expression, doing everything I could to hide the fact that I was laughing underneath.

"Oh fine, you win," he said at last, brushing off my challenge with a deferential wave. "I admit it's possible that I _may_ be hiding something, but you won't catch me spilling any trade secrets, Princess. Some things are meant to be a surprise. Besides, you only turn eleven once, am I right?" Again he winked and formed an impish grin as I began to roll my eyes. But then I paused, a sudden thought emerging and I looked at him with hopeful curiosity. "Are you going to play a new song?" I asked.

This evidently moved him and his head tipped jovially to the side, his eyes lost inside a sea of happiness. "You'll just have to wait and see, Princess. But it's nice to know I have such an adoring fan."

I couldn't help but blush again. I was indeed a massive fan.

"As far as passions go," he reflected, "I have to admit, music has been one of the more enjoyable ones I've picked up this year. Even King seems to like it. I think it soothes him." He looked at me, his tone direct. "But what about you, Anna?"

I blinked at him. "Me?"

"Sure," he nodded. "New years bring new passions. Have you thought of what you want yours to be?"

I contemplated a moment, though it wasn't really necessary. Gauging my priorities was easy and I nodded. "I want to make new memories," I answered. My cheeks flushed inadvertently, emotion welling up inside me.

"Well of course we'll make new memories," he laughed. "Lots of them!"

My eyes grew wide. "Do you mean it?"

"Sure, he means it," Izumo spoke up over the liquor cabinet. "We all do. And the guy's got a point. We may have our rough spots, but we're not so unpolished that we'd let a fancy girl like you get overlooked when we've got Tatara, here to capture you on one of his clunky old video cameras. Isn't that right, Tatara?"

"_Vintage _video cameras, if you please," Tatara said, lifting up a finger to correct him. "And that's true. Because you see, Anna, we've had the pleasure of knowing who you truly are in _here_." He pointed that same finger to the bow atop my dress, his deeper meaning striking every chord that I possessed. "We won't let a second go to waste," he announced, "which is why we're going to make sure tomorrow's a day you'll never forget."

I teetered on the verge of tears, so warmed was I by this, and Tatara perceived me with another little laugh, this one more consolatory. His smile, likewise, turned comforting and he reached up, cupping my cheek in his hand — his warm, fluttery hand that always melted me in such a way as Mikoto's touch could never do; but that was what made Tatara so special: his touch was from the heart.

"But if we're going to make it memorable, I'd better be off!" He added happily. "You should be too, Anna. It's getting kinda late and princesses need their beauty sleep." He rose, relinquishing his hold on me with one last Tatara gleam. "Pleasant dreams, Anna. Until tomorrow!"

I watched him go, my gaze drawn after him inside my ball of glass. Still, I felt the softness of his hand against my cheek, as though he never left, as though he lingered everywhere, in every little thought, in every touch. As long as one was thinking about him, Tatara was there. I believed it then and now I still believe it: aura or no aura, that was Tatara's true gift.

Waltzing through the door, the bell above it chiming as it opened, I could see him clearly then: the clearest bit of color, beautiful and pure, that I had ever seen. He crossed into the street, the door jingling shut after him, his image slowly fading until life and color drained to ambiguity once more.

I went to bed happy that night. Even when the dreams came — those dreams that never left me, even in my waking hours — I wasn't nearly so afraid nor lonely anymore, perhaps because that night, Tatara was there. Though I couldn't see him, surrounded by the darkness of my sphere, I felt his warmth of presence burning in my heart and smiled in spite of ever-roaming Shadows flaunting midnight power over my depleted form. My solitude was gone. My joy felt indestructible with Tatara beside me.

But then something odd happened: I grew conscious of a life form entering the sphere. The Shadows intermixed with it. Their midnight auras, normally alone and monstrously dark, were morphed inside a myriad of colors swirling all around.

I stood, gazing out at the abyss, the endlessness of space within the realm of dreams. What once was but a sea of midnight power turned to something more. I sensed a further darkness deeper than the night, for this strange bit of darkness took the form of light: a polychromatic stream, sickening flirtations of translucence running with an empty lustre striking to the eye, yet horrid to the soul. A foul flavor lingered in the air and with it, the hollow traces of a voice came trickling to my ears, threatening Tatara's hold inside my heart.

I clutched my chest and urged him not to go, to stay with me instead. Still, the voice grew over him, masking him from me, trilling like a breeze until I realized what it was: a humming, singing voice, a melody of song, though every bit as vile as that same light it sang upon. It chilled me to the bone, filling me with dread.

By then, the light had wrung through midnight's hold inside my sphere, its many colors reigning over black. What aura midnight grasped was shrouded in familiar pigmentations and I felt my heart beat violently against it. I recognized the sight, moreover, the feeling of it. I'd felt it somewhere before: I knew exactly where! Then all at once, a loud crack as that of a gunshot sent me flying awake with a gasp. "Tatara!" I cried.

I whirled around, out of breath and searching for my marbles. They lay where I had left them on the table next to me, yet in the splitting instant I had woken, one of them had shattered.

I stared, transfixed. My eyes, unblinking, shook inside their sockets.

Violently, I threw the covers off and raced my bare feet out the door, down the hall, and into Mikoto's room without so much as a knock. "Mikoto!" I called out, scratched and broken in a whisper. "I think something's happened! I had a dream that Tatara — !"

Eerily I was silenced as I encroached upon the scene, the feeling of it noxious and the air itself infected with decay. It was an aura I sensed, though I somehow failed to see it. More than that, I realized it was our aura and yet I didn't recognize it. By means I couldn't fathom at the time, it had altered itself, feeling strangely different: not a constant heat but stagnant and unbreathable; not comforting but curiously alone. It wandered about aimlessly without a given course, and in the midst of it, I glimpsed Mikoto seated on his bed, his phone mechanically withdrawn from ear to lap and then allowed to plummet to the floor. Vacantly, he stared, neither here nor there nor anywhere at all, just like the aura circling throughout. He seemed so far away, inside a trans of sorts, and when he spoke his voice was like hollow vacuum, sucking me inside. "Tatara's dead," I heard him say to me.

I felt as though a lightning bolt had struck me from within. With a tiny hand, I clutched my chest, seeking to retrieve the breath that vanished at the words. _Tatara. Dead. Tatara is Dead._ It's true that I had known and yet I hadn't, or rather I wished I hadn't, as though I'd been suspended in mid-air, knowing I would fall, and yet I was surprised when I came tumbling down to earth. Witnessing Mikoto still and silent on the bed, I saw in him as well: the heart descending swiftly from the chest and plunging through the earth to somewhere far away. I saw his lids dip slowly to a close, his brow intensified. His shoulders hunched and tightened, every bit of force he carried boiling to the surface. He wasn't apt to keeping it contained, never in the past and certainly not then. His fiery red came surging from within, consuming every outlet, intending to explode, to burn, to kill, to slaughter until nothing else remained.

My inability to speak, to move, to think, was severed, and I leapt to him at once. I threw my arms around him, clinging to that red I so adored. Desperately, I pulled him close, burrowing my tear-soaked cheeks into the hollow of his chest, extinguishing the flames and willing him to rest. His aura, having risen once in potency, began to lose effect, receding seconds after to a stale current sinking over me.

When I was certain, following a moment or two, that every bit of red had crept its way back into Mikoto, veritably (or thereabouts) at peace, I looked at him. He hadn't moved. His eyes still lingered on ahead, blank, heavy; his arms hung limply at his sides. Then, as though he'd been extinguished as completely as his red, his head keeled forward slowly, dropping on my shoulder with a thump. I felt his steady breathing, faint, warm, brushing on my neck. Kneeling there alone with me inside the dreary darkness of the room, he made no sound, and yet, I heard him scream.

"You saw," he said at last to me. His voice was thick, strained. He knew we shared the dream, just like all the rest. He knew what I had seen, what I had felt. He'd felt it too. He cringed against the sudden recollection. "I wish you hadn't," he said. "No one should have to see that."

"It was the same as before," I whispered. "That person..."

"The Colorless King," he supplied in perhaps the lowest voice I'd ever heard.

I trembled at the sound, my eyes drawn wide. "A King?" I stammered out. I couldn't believe it.

"He's behind it," Mikoto answered, and I understood his meaning. The word 'it' implied more than just Tatara. This man's presence with the Shadows made it clear. _So that was why,_ I realized. _That was why they kept on slipping through our fingers. It was all because of him: the Colorless King_._ And this, what happened to Tatara: it's the signal we'd been waiting for, only now, I wish it never would have come._

"I know what I have to do now," I heard Mikoto whisper, and I pulled apart from him, feeling oddly anxious. He didn't look at me but continued frowning downward. Subtly, I followed with my gaze. His hands were drawn before him, resting in his lap. He clutched them into fists and opened them again, a set of flames enveloping his palms.

Something about his look frightened me. "But your Sword," I warned him. "It can't take much more."

Mikoto didn't hear, or else he chose not to.

"Just one more ought to do it," he said, staring at his hands, entranced. He tightened them again, stifling the flames. "That should be enough."

"_Enough?_" I repeated, horrorstruck. "You're going to get revenge?"

He gave a little 'humph.' "It's not as nice as how you say it." It appeared he _was _listening, though only to what he cared enough to hear. "Either way, it'll be worth it," he mumbled out, and I sent a sudden slap across his face, angered in my sorrow.

Mikoto hardly flinched, resuming his blank stare across the floor. I thought perhaps he didn't care, but then I saw my words had struck a chord. Wearily he shut his eyes and slumped down to his knees. He cowered to my height and knelt his forehead onto mine, letting loose a shaky little sigh. "What's the difference?" I heard him whisper. "It's inevitable, it'll happen anyway. Why not make it count?"

I frowned at this, though not so much in anger but with sudden understanding. Mikoto wasn't asking in his normal, careless way. His tone, in fact, was genuine. Somehow, at the end of him was gentle authenticity, the remnants of a raw, unguarded soul, and there, just there, I saw him at his end.

For the first time then, he looked at me and I saw that nothing whole resided in his gaze. I found him sad to look upon. As for him, he must have caught my evident discord and, thinking to console me, said, "Don't worry. I'll still keep my promise to you. I'll just have to find a way to do both, that's all."

"Then you know nothing of that promise, Mikoto!" I shot back, raising my voice at him for the first time since I'd known him.

Shocked, he looked at me, confused. "What do you mean? You don't think I meant it?"

"If you do this, Mikoto, you'll be giving up that promise. That's not what I want, and it's not what Tatara would want either!"

At the mention of Tatara's name, Mikoto noticeably flinched, as though by merely speaking it, he'd somehow died again. I, too, caught the power of my words and felt my anger wallow into sadness once again.

Sinking back against him, I gave a heavy sigh; he gave one too. He closed his eyes and so did I, his forehead gently brushing against mine. Together, we remained, the pair of us silent. Several moments passed this way, then a few more. It wasn't that we felt peace, more that we were looking for a way to forget. Searching in the other, neither one of us found it, but the closeness gave us comfort at the very least. We felt each other's pain and suffered it as one. I suppose that accounted for something.

"You made a promise, Mikoto" I whimpered softly after a while. "You promised me that you would do anything to help me. I know you meant it; I never doubted you, but..." I sniffled shakily, "it isn't what you think." Slowly, I began to cry, rubbing fisted fingers on my eyes to wipe away the tears. Mikoto simply sat there, peering down in silence.

"Then tell me," he said at length.

Between my sobs, I froze, peeking out at him.

"Tell me what to do."

He neither looked at me nor seemed to look at anything. He was, as I could see, a shadow of a man, lost to life or purpose, shattered to the core, though not completely gone. A bit of hope snuck back into the darkness of the room.

With another sniff, my breath a fractured ripple coming in, I drew his face in tiny hands and cupped his cheeks as Tatara cupped my own cheek not twelve hours before. Mikoto seemed quite fragile to me then. It was foreign and somewhat lovely. But for my small fingers resting lightly on his face, I could have sworn that I was fully grown, and that he was the child peering back at me.

Gently, I drew near to him, and in an earnest whisper, I said, "Live."

Mikoto stared, dumbstruck, and afterward his gaze began to waver. Inwardly, I felt his strength, or rather, his firm walls, deteriorate, then slowly shrink away. He knew that I had trapped him and he said so with a scoff, almost with annoyance, as he turned his face away from me and stared down at floor; and in his natural brooding voice, he softly whispered, "Damn it."

* * *

Chapter Four: Tōru Hieda


	4. Chapter Four: Tōru Hieda

K: Midnight: A K Project Fan Fiction

Chapter Four: Tōru Hieda

* * *

_May 15, 2012_

"Mikoto?"

"Hm?"

"Is this a date?"

Mikoto stopped along the sidewalk, curving his rough features to the side. His left eye barely looked at me, a sort of knowingness behind it. "Do you want to go on one?"

I don't know why; never had I fallen quite so frozen, but I couldn't seem to bring myself to answer. I was suddenly so flustered, I dipped down awkwardly, reddening profusely and feeling like an idiot.

"Ah, is that so..." I heard him say.

He kept on walking. Still, I didn't move. Instead, I merely smiled, cupped my hand around my mouth and whispered into Tatara's video camera, "I'm on a date with Mikoto today."

It had been a while since the two of us had found ourselves alone together. With everything happening lately, the upturn of events that brought our foes marauding on our doorstep yet again, I hadn't been allowed the freedom to meander by myself, not whilst Midnight Shadows lurked about the city. Their actions, both elusive and sporadic, spoke of grand designs no doubt were catered just for me, and for this, it wasn't safe for me outside. However, with the Red King, Mikoto Suoh, as my chaperone, I hadn't a thing to worry about. Rather, I'm certain Mikoto would have welcomed the idea of being bait, if only to lure the Shadows out from their respective fissures in Shizume. However, the idea of dangling me on that same line was something less than pleasing to Mikoto. He was willing to do anything and everything in order to bring the Shadows out into the light — except put me in danger.

I then reminded him that it was he who first proposed the option to begin with, though he, it seemed, had changed his mind since then. Meanwhile while I had never been opposed to the idea. On the contrary, I was growing restless. I pleaded with him constantly, begging him to string me on a line so as to make a tempting snare, yet much to my dismay, my words held no weight whatsoever in his mind. I was then compelled to pinpoint this as one of his more densely stubborn (even stupid) traits, yet neither did this tactic prove to steer him toward my course. Thick as he was, lazily defiant in every way imaginable, he wasn't going to listen.

I dropped the issue after that, succumbing to my fate that, rather than chasing Shadows, or allowing them to chase us, we were destined for the arcade to play bloody games that only I could see; to the bookshop to read fairy tales Mikoto said were common but that I had never heard of (and there we saw Reisi, but we didn't seem to stay long after that); then out to lunch to eat tomato spaghetti (though I ordered Mikoto a hamburger instead).

We got ice cream for dessert. I liked mine well enough; Mikoto's melted instantly. We went to the park for a while and soon found ourselves wandering through the center of town, passing shops and cafes like a pair of common people simply out 'having fun,' and of course, I captured said 'fun' onto film.

It was all well and good because Mikoto was there; it was always better with him, though he wasn't really all-there to begin with. Truthfully, neither was I. _I just want this to be over, _I thought. I was restless, irritable. Mikoto felt the same, though neither one of us constrained ourselves to mention it out loud. We were on a 'date.' That kind of thing tends to ruin the mood.

Further down, we came upon a grand intersection where we meant to cross, yet something in the corner of my eye attracted my attention and I turned, stuffing a hand inside my pocket, only to discover that I'd left my marbles at home.

In that moment, as though some unnamed voiced compelled me to the act, I held up Tatara's camera to my eye and stared, amazed at what I saw. It appeared my will to see the world was drawn into the lens and through it, I saw every color imaginable. It was brilliant, clear, a clean, untainted city, large and full of life.

Then my eyes were widened and I muttered something out. I cannot say for certain what it was, though in response, my consciousness entranced itself. Something faint, unknown and yet existent, called to me.

Without a thought, I drew my hand away from where it rested on Mikoto's wrist, my fingers having twiddled with the bracelet made and fastened there by Tatara only several months before.

Instinctively, Mikoto dropped his brow. I'm sure he hummed a question, turning down to look at me, but I had already gone.

I can't recall just what it was that drew me in so vehemently, I couldn't hear a thing; nor did I perceive the people, cars, the city bustling around me. Perhaps it was a feeling sucking me inside. Whatever it was I followed it down one street, then another, up a stair and round one final corner to a concrete yard surrounded by a well-trimmed hedge and rows of blooming sakura trees, their petals raining down upon a mighty metal sphere within the center of the yard – some decorative piece of artwork, I presumed. A fountain trickled outward from its top and ran along its curve into a little wishing pool, in which, the lower quarter of the sphere submerged itself.

A flock of birds trilled lightly overhead, circling the sphere as children might a may-pole. It was the sole disturbance other than the babbling of the fountain, therefore, I was drawn to look at it.

Then that 'feeling' I had witnessed drifted downward like a breeze. My eyes descended likewise, trailing after it, and settled on a white-haired figure sitting on a slab beside the pool. His legs were crossed, his head was bowed, his features drawn and focused on the pages of a book laid open in his palm.

He was a rather young man, perhaps eighteen years of age. He wore a navy blue uniform; no doubt, he belonged to an academy nearby, though at the time, I couldn't tell which one.

Other than himself, no other person could be found in my immediate vicinity. The courtyard lay secluded, practically invisible unless stumbled on by accident. If I myself had not been led expressly by what still eluded me, I wouldn't have suspected its existence.

I had been running when I came across the yard, and at the abrupt pacing of my heels turned all at once to silence, the young man lightly glanced up from his book and focused his attention onto me. His face was soft, his eyes near squinting shut in one large, genial smile. "Hello there!" he said.

I wasn't certain what to do. _Clearly, I was brought here for a reason, _I thought to myself. _Is he the reason? _

"Are you lost?" He asked.

Again, I didn't speak and merely held the camera up to him. The brightness of the city, the innumerable slews of definite shades remained, though when I drew the camera close and centered onto him, I saw no definition but a haze of many colors shifting in an inconclusive blur. It did not seem to come from him exactly: rather, it revolved itself around him, attracted like a magnet to his presence: smooth, ornate and fluid as a dance, the same that those small chirping birds produced above our heads.

At my continued silence, he rose, sending me a friendly wave. His smile widened (which I hadn't thought was possible but clearly, I was wrong) and he hunched himself a bit, trying not to seem so tall and menacing to me. In truth I wasn't frightened but I didn't mind the sentiment. He seemed kind, at least. "It's alright," he said. "I promise I won't bite. Would you like to sit down? I often come here to read," he added, holding the book aloft. "No one ever comes here, so it's always nice and peaceful. My name's Tōru — Tōru Hieda. What's yours?"

I peeled the camera down, revealing half my face. I must have seemed afraid to him. My massive eyes conveyed the look that always, I was terrified. I saw him bend his knees, setting hands upon them, and he sent a little chuckle through the air. "I said I wouldn't bite, and I meant it."

_I probably should find out what this haze of non-color color is swirling around him, _I decided. Cautiously, I took a step toward him.

Seeing my approach as some small victory, Tōru started to rise, appearing still as pleasant as before. "Now who might you be?" He asked again, this time with a little droll to his voice so as to flatter me.

_He's so nice, _I thought. _So why do I feel this strange uneasiness? Is it him, or this vague air surrounding him? _I bit my lip, contemplating a moment. _I'll just have to ask him, _I concluded, and I ventured on to speak. "I — "

"Anna!" Mikoto called behind me, and I whirled around to see his flamed — though not actually flamed — expression staring not at me, but at Tōru. I shifted back a glance to my new 'friend' and then Mikoto. He was stern, just like a statue, and for a moment, so was Tōru.

Under my breath, I whispered to Mikoto, "You feel it too?"

"There's something weird here," he said to me.

A void-piercing silence struck us as I searched Mikoto's face. Something rather explosive was on the verge of happening, though breaking through the tension in a mild, yet nevertheless disarming gesture, I heard Tōru's lovely laugh behind me.

"Well, it looks like you weren't lost for very long. Anna, is it? Well, Anna, I'm glad you found your way again." He sent a fleeting glance back to Mikoto, seemingly unperturbed, and then his eyes were lost inside another astronomical grin. "Perhaps I'll see you here again sometime." He turned and strutted off, passing round the fountain with his book in one hand and a friendly wave sent outward from the other.

"Who was that?" Mikoto asked, following Tōru with his death stare. I told him, and also what I'd seen, which he confirmed in more or less equal terms. Something about that boy unsettled both of us. The polychromatic fog permeating the air around him, masking him from total clarity, was like a signal we'd been waiting for, though what that signal was, we couldn't put our fingers on it.

"Don't ever do that again," Mikoto scolded me. Then taking my hand firmly into his — which he never did; without distinctly saying so, we both agreed it to be childish, though it didn't seem to matter in this instant — he led me back the way we came.

As we passed the sakura trees, soon to turn the corner that would mask the little haven from our view, I peered around my shoulder, glancing back into the yard. I thrust the camera up and caught the final glimmers of the haze that followed after Tōru like a flurry swirling gently in the breeze. It flickered with a sparkling aqua hue, then magenta, then a flash of green, and then it was gone.

* * *

Chapter Five: Reckless Red


	5. Chapter Five: Reckless Red

K: Midnight: A K Project Fan Fiction

Chapter Five: Reckless Red

* * *

_October 2, 2010_

Shizume lay quiet. To the eye prevailed a sense of calm while to the senses, to the heart and soul of Homra, nothing could be further from the truth. A restlessness abounded in the air, as though we were a ship without a breeze, caught in lifeless waters where a rudder held no sway.

My episodes decreased; the bar - to the chagrin of Izumo — was empty; Tatara took up music; and the boys were so far spent in looking for a fight, they'd lost all interest in going out. Even Reisi and his clan had kept to themselves. Nothing stirred, yet somehow in my mind, I felt that something astronomical was coming, and that this calm would soon give way for what would be the largest storm of all.

Mikoto in particular was more reserved than usual. Normally, I could sense him, feel the rhythm of his thoughts. Our bond had kept us linked that way, whether we wanted it or not, though lately, our connection had been strained. Inexplicably, I found him somewhat closed to me, and the internal absence over time had begun to worry me.

I then resigned myself to speak with him, yet he had disappeared following the grand explosion of events atop Shizume City, no doubt venting his insatiable desire for violence and most likely what he'd been so secretive about. Though highly out-of-character for one so apathetic as Mikoto, it became an increasing habit of his to leave without a word and not return for hours, only to resume his naturally withdrawn existence, hardly speaking to me or anyone else. However, this was the first time he had been absent longer than a day, and soon, four days had gone by since the night we got the call on Tatara's phone.

Thus, when I inevitably sensed his return (however faintly) on the fifth day, I came running down the stairs to greet him, only to discover that he had zoomed directly through his window on the second floor and then lay sound asleep. I didn't care though; I had to see him. I missed the red that captured me the moment I first saw it, and I missed him, the one who was himself the red.

I raced back up the stairs. It was harder, being as short as I was. Every step took two of mine, and when at last I reached the top, annoyingly out of breath, I snuck my way into Mikoto's room and crawled up on the bed beside him. He hadn't even bothered getting underneath the sheets. He simply sprawled out with his hands behind his head and his face tilted toward the ceiling.

I laid down on my side, resting my cheek on his arm just above the elbow. He was warm; always he was warm; his red had kept him so, and not five minutes passed when I, too, having lost my nerve to wake him, drifted off to sleep.

I wasn't certain how much time had passed, only that it was dark when I awoke. Still, Mikoto slept, though he had turned his features sideways and his nose was touching mine. I smiled, closed my eyes once more, and did not wake until dawn. Again, he was asleep, or so I thought. His arm was drawn around me, pressing me against him, and as I stirred, so also did his hand close in around my waist.

"I know, I'm reckless," he said. I watched his eyes squint open and look squarely into mine. "Can you blame me?"

"I never do," I said. "Besides…" I started to say, but I didn't finish. He knew what I would say, and creased his brow as if to argue, but instead, his frown relaxed and he said nothing.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" I asked, and he turned his face away, sending his stern gaze upon the ceiling. That meant 'No.'

_So they got away, _I surmised. I knew he made a promise he would find them, but I didn't think he'd take it quite so far. He seemed thoroughly wracked with something sinister, of which, I couldn't help but think I was the cause. There was a certain darkness lurking in his features. Even in the contours of his profile staring upward at the ceiling, I could tell: this was not a man who simply wished to burn for burning's sake; and yet, for all my wondering, I couldn't find a reasoning behind it.

I then sought to conjure up a stratagem: a way to unmask every hint of calculated broodiness that might reveal his brazen self beneath – that raw, undaunted nature he once permitted me to witness, but had thenceforth — and for no apparent reason — kept me hidden from, as though he'd somehow changed and feared what I might see, moreover, what I might say, that perhaps I might not like what he'd become. _If this truly is about me, _I cogitated,_ then I have to let him know that I'm alright with it, no matter what it is. Do that,_ I said to myself,_ and you'll have found your answer_. I pondered this another moment, an idea having formed itself and growing in my mind. When at last, I came to confidence, certain of success, I resigned myself and set my plan in motion.

Gently, I reached a finger out and poked his cheek, then watched his lip begin to curl, his face turned cunning at my touch.

"You know that sort of thing won't work on me, right?"

"Wrong," I said. "I don't pretend with you."

Mikoto flinched and glared at me, though I knew well that glaring was exactly what he wasn't doing; and I smirked, my look conveying my perception: that in my minute action, my simplicity of touch, intimate, genuine, devoid of any farce, I'd wholly won him over, and he caved. In one great sigh, he scooped me up and pulled me fully onto him, wrapping both his arms around me, locking me inside.

I couldn't keep from letting loose a little 'umph' at being smushed against him all at once, yet there, in arms so fierce and destitute, I lay — in any ordinary circumstance, cut off from circulation, and yet somehow, just the opposite was true. My face buried in the crook between his shoulder and his chin, I sensed the slight pulsations of his neck along my cheek. My nose picked up the tickling sensation of the wisps of fiery hair about his face; moreover, the intoxicating scent of tobacco from his last cigarette. So close was I, drawn near to him _by _him, I hummed my evident contentment and allowed myself the comfort of drifting in accordance with the movement of his chest, rising slowly up and down, his arms bound ever tightly round my dainty little frame. I didn't think it possible to bring me any closer, but to him, it seemed I wasn't close enough.

That's when it appeared; so long distant, it came flooding back: the contents of his thoughts, like half of me — the half that disappeared — had suddenly returned. This time, I could see it flashing vaguely in his mind; moreover, I could feel it. It was why he ventured out alone for days on end. Sure, he wished to vent and blow off steam. That's just the sort of person that he is; but this time — and I realized, many more times since we'd met — he wasn't simply searching for answers, for the Shadows, for a way to undo what they'd done. He was striving with a passion that surpassed what I expected from the promise that he made, even one so obdurate as his. This passion drove all prior senses into dust.

He would fulfill his promise to me, though he would not do to solely for my sake. He no longer wanted it as ardently as I. No, this was something different, something more, something his indicative demeanor contradicted; his overall aloofness, what he wished for me to see: all of it was feigned and what he then revealed to me supplanted all the rest. What I saw was truth, his truth, the truth he meant to hide, but somehow found he couldn't any more, the truth of what he wanted for himself, and, given the endurance of emotion I received, I quickly understood: he wanted it more deeply than I wanted it myself.

* * *

Chapter Six: Flashes Over Shizume


	6. Chapter Six: Flashes Over Shizume

K: Midnight: A K Project Fan Fiction

Chapter Six: Flashes Over Shizume

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_September 27, 2010_

The two of us were walking around town doing our own form of recon, which meant doing nothing that resembled recon whatsoever. So long as Tatara was there, every outing was a social call. He talked with everyone he met, was interested in anything and everything and therefore, he was popular, if only in the circles who knew nothing about Homra or Mikoto. In those circles, he had found himself assailed upon time and time again and not in any peaceful way either, which is why I took the liberty of accompanying him. On his own, he ventured to do as he pleased and say the things he knew would get him into trouble. Still, he did and said them anyway. He didn't seem to care much what might happen to him, but with me, a little girl on his arm, let's just say he'd fallen out of recklessness whenever I was there. Consequently, in the realm of the supernatural, our time in the city was altogether uneventful, meaning it was downright boring.

My only consolation was the fact that I liked Tatara; enormously, I liked him. Despite our age, he had a way of seeming older, wiser, as though he'd lived a good deal longer than the rest of us, and I often wondered what it was he seemed to see in life that no one else could see.

In the months converging into years following my rather bumpy transformation, Tatara had taken it upon himself to draw me under his wing, tending to me not as one would care for any ordinary girl but as though I were something infinitely more precious, as though he recognized a secret worth concealing and he concealed it too, treating me with kindness and respect and with a hint of fatherly affection which I quickly deemed as one of the better, more endearing qualities indicative of fortitude he bore.

Tatara came to pride himself fully in our friendship, always boasting his regard for me, as if it were he who was the child looking up to me, and for that, for his unconscious understanding of me, we became quite close to the point where I could even be myself around him: that self Mikoto warned me not to be for fear of giving me — my natural self — away. Unlike the others (who would not have understood), Tatara knew that I was different, even if he failed to pinpoint what it was exactly that had set me miles apart from everyone else, including him, but that was what had set him equally apart. He simply didn't care.

We were on our way back to Homra, having collected nothing useful, not even a feeling or a slight reverberation that pronounced the faintest glimmer of a presence, when, glancing through my marble, I came abruptly to a halt. My hand, clinging to the edge of Tatara's sleeve, grew tight and Tatara stopped as well.

"What is it?" He asked, peering down at me.

I issued out a concentrated hum, rolling the marble in between my finger and my thumb. Over the course of many months, Homra had been monitoring a series of disturbances reported by the members of Izumo's underground network: instances of terror wreaked by certain shady individuals we knew to be the Shadows. Working well to our advantage, word of their endeavors had successfully leaked out. Thus, my aim with Tatara (as with the rest of Homra scattered through Shizume) was on tracking the advancement of their vanity and boldness, growing in awareness without making it appear we were aware, staying active and alert whilst giving the impression we were not. As such, we would know when it was time for us to strike.

I in particular was a successful tool in this. My link by way of painful episodes gave evidence to their approach. Whenever sinister intentions – chiefly through the usage of my aura – brought them near enough to me, I witnessed the acute displeasure of my vacancy of power. In terrorizing burns, my body would contract, seeking to awaken and yet labor in submission by the obvious affliction that disabled it from doing so. It was an unavoidable occurrence periodic in nature (or rather, in my new, unnatural nature), therefore there was nothing Tatara, nor anyone else could do to prevent it. For this very purpose, I found I could be useful as a sort of signal or alarm to queue the rest of Homra to advance.

However, despite several attempts to draw the Shadows out into the open, employing adequate incentives sure to catch their eye, it appeared their sole enticement came by way of the indulgence in their pride and nothing more. As it happened, they kept their distance, much to the disappointment of myself and of Homra. For once, my painlessness annoyed me, being of a singular uselessness to our efforts, and the fact that I could sense a deeper meaning only added to the tedium of it all.

The uncharacteristic lassitude displayed against the forces of Homra gave me the distinct impression that the Shadows had been biding precious time, though for what, I could not tell. All I ascertained (or really only guessed at) was the notion that I ceased to be of solitary value to whatever they were planning. My reasoning was thus that if their scheme was subject chiefly to the procurement of my minute personage and nothing more, the Shadows would have long since made a move against me and Mikoto. Therefore I was pressed upon the variable alternative that something larger, something we all failed to see or wonder, was afoot, and thereby found myself sworn (as Mikoto was as well) toward finding out exactly what it was. Little did we realize at the time what it would ultimately bring.

All this I pondered, eye still focused through the marble, witnessing my hopes as they descended into dust at what I saw.

Tatara clearly grasped my disappointment, for he turned himself more thoroughly to look at me, his head bent low, observing patiently.

I shrunk in signal of defeat. "We're too late," I said at last.

"Why, what did you see?"

"Blue," I answered.

Tatara gave his pleasant, thoughtful look that was his version of a frown and he hummed. "I see. Well I think King will be pleased." His tone was bright and cheerful and I looked at him, confused. He simply grinned at me. "If the Blues got the them first, then King has a reason to go over there and say 'Hello.' You know how much he looks forward to his conversations with Blue King Reisi Munakata."

I smirked at him. Tatara always did manage to convey the dangerous truths with a sort of casual eloquence, as though there were never a thing to worry about, and over time, I came to acknowledge that his way of saying things was ultimately more accurate anyway. This particular scenario was no different. There was a sort of bond that linked Mikoto and Reisi together. Ever had they wanted to antagonize each other if it meant that they could fight. Whatever inner natures they possessed had drawn one to the other, always in a similar fashion, pairing order with chaos, fire with ice. I suppose in a way, they really did look forward to it.

"Maybe you're right," I answered, and giving another tug on Tatara's sleeve, we set out once again, making our way home.

"What took you so long!" Misaki yelled before we'd finished walking through the door.

The whole of Homra was in an uproar, save Izumo, who never seemed a decibel above passivity at any given moment; and Mikoto, who was nowhere to be found.

"What's all this?" Tatara asked.

Misaki skipped across the bar and slammed his skateboard on the ground.

"Careful!" Izumo snapped. Apparently, his anger only surfaced when it came to the well being of his precious bar.

"It's the Blues!" Misaki hollered. "They got the guys we're looking for — only now, we gotta go get 'em and question 'em before those bastards get a chance! I'm not about to let those guys just walk all over us and get away with it without some serious ass-kicking!"

Tatara snuck me a quick, sidelong glance. "Actually, Anna had a feeling we'd be seeing the Blue Clan pretty quickly here. Isn't that right, Anna?"

I peered my head from side to side, scanning the room. "Where's Mikoto?"

"Ah, I'm guessing that's why we're all in a hurry," Tatara figured. "He went in head first, didn't he?"

Izumo shrugged, sending off a goofy grin. "What kind'a king would he be if he didn't barrel in at every opportunity? Seemed he couldn't wait."

Tatara laughed. "Well, then! I think we'll tag along and watch. This should be fun."

"Okay, but just make sure you keep Anna safe," Izumo warned, fidgeting his sunglasses. "We don't want her getting mixed up in all this if it comes down to a fight."

"Don't worry!" Tatara waved, opening the door for me. "You know I wouldn't let anything happen to our princess."

By the time we caught up to Mikoto, I was surprised to find him standing all alone atop some helicopter pad belonging to one of Shizume's many high-risers. The Blue King hadn't arrived yet, nor any member of his clan, and the only disturbance that arose was the light flapping of Mikoto's jacket in the cool September wind.

Instantly on spotting him, I released my hold on Tatara's sleeve and ran to him, wrapping both my hands around his solitary one. Against the chill of night, his skin proclaimed on mine the roaring fire of a furnace, brimming me with warmth.

On feeling me, my gentle touch, he looked at me, the gleam in his eye directed only ever at me persistent in more stern a gaze than what I'd seen from him before. It was a look that said, 'We're close.'

In a giant whoosh that blew up all our coats, our hair, and (to my embarrassment) my skirt, they arrived: the Blues of Scepter 4, and leading centerfold: the Blue King himself.

Reisi Munakata — tall, handsome, noble in stature — stepped across the pad. "Third King Mikoto Suoh," he stated in his deep, well-rounded voice, "your actions are wild and chaotic as usual."

"Fourth King Reisi Munakata," Mikoto answered lackadaisically, "your face looks awful and annoying as usual."

I saw the faintest outline of a smile creep along the side of Reisi's mouth. His eyes whisked gently to a close. "I must ask you to desist. This matter is under the jurisdiction of Scepter 4."

"That's not my problem," said Mikoto, cocking his bored features to the side.

Izumo stepped beside him, smoothing down the wind-blown flaps of his lapel. "Those 'strains' you arrested a while ago," he said, plucking from his lips, an unlit cigarette, "for starters, we know they're not strains. See, we've had our eye on them for quite some time. They pulled some stunts in our territory and we've got some questions we'd like to ask. So could you hand them over to us?"

Munakata seemed to hum, though not in disconcertion but to laugh. "You people are nothing but trouble, aren't you?" He mocked. "If what you seek is that which lies in Scepter 4's custody, then I feel I must inform you: while I would agree, it is hardly an accurate appraisal merely to deem those individuals as strains, neither do they appear to be affiliated with any king. Be that as it may, they each share a similar aura: one pitch black in hue."

My heart skipped a beat on hearing this. Mikoto also, through his passive features, felt the same.

"Though what resides beneath the surface is infinitely more dangerous," Reisi continued. "They are most sinister, indeed. I have to wonder then, why you've taken such an interest all of a sudden. Even someone as unpleasant and of such a low-grade calibre as yourself should have no business with the likes of those miscreants."

Mikoto humphed. "Careful, Munakata. You're well on your way to paying me a compliment."

"What are those outsiders to you, Suoh?" Reisi pressed him.

"None of your damn business," was Mikoto's prompt reply.

Reisi blinked long, sliding up his glasses with a sigh. "So be it. Of course, you understand I cannot comply with your request."

Mikoto gave a tilt of his head, his features lifted high into the air before descending in a death stare, the twisted look he bore expressing his amusement. "I was hoping you'd say that." Then lowering his voice still further, his gaze a flaming dagger into Reisi's own bespectacled visage, he ordered, "Burn them."

Misaki, just behind him, rose a fist into the air, and the chant of "No blood! No bone! No ash!" rained down upon the Blues of Scepter 4.

"Tatara," Mikoto breathed.

"You got it," came Tatara's cheery exultation, and I felt a little nudge along my shoulder. "Come on Anna," he said, leading me away. "Time to let these kings be kings."

I began to follow after him, still turned to view Mikoto staring Reisi down. "Mikoto," I said gently, and while he didn't answer me nor even deign to look at me, the feeling I perceived – that small unconscious ball of thought we shared – gave evidence enough to what he meant to say: _I'm doing this for you._

Tatara stole me to a place of vantage from which to view the night's festivities unharmed. From there, atop my perch, I saw the red and blue collide and wished that there was something I could do, but all I did was stand there, staring at the sky with Tatara beside me. He didn't fight either, though not because he couldn't. Rather, his excuse was simply the immaculate resplendency of kindness.

"It's alright," he said to me, sensing my discomfort. I admit, it was obvious, the way I kept on biting at my lip, staring with an ever-deepening frown up at the sky. "This is just how kings saw hello," he smiled, but I only glared at him.

"Tatara, be serious."

He laughed his pleasant, jovial laugh, dipping his keen features in a blink. "Sorry," he said." But I don't think there's much to worry about. It looks like everyone's having a great time tonight."

"But they're fighting," I reminded him.

"True," he answered airily, "but doesn't it look like they're dancing? See?" He produced a ball of scintillated aura that came fluttering from his palm. "Like this butterfly."

The blazing winged creature flitted through the air, emitting little sparks that looked like pixie dust. It circled around him on its way up to Mikoto's Sword of Damocles, about which, it ignited in a swarm as that of glistening garlands, entwining light and beauty with the untamed savagery of the Sword.

"So pretty," I found myself saying. I was entranced by Tatara's innate nature mirrored in the fire only he retained the power to compose, and turned to see his usual look of wonderment as he too stared up at the sky. "It sure is beautiful, isn't it?" He said.

I could not deny that this bit of loveliness, the loveliness of Tatara, soothed me, even pepped me up a bit; yet overall, I still was bored to think that I was nothing but a sideliner. While Tatara was good company for boredom, always optimistic, cheering me and keeping me amused, even he could tell that nothing stood to cure me of my restlessness that night.

"Wait and see," he reassured me, his tone dropped down to seriousness. "One day, you won't have to sit up here with me and watch if you don't want to." He gave me one of his charming smirks. "I'm not cut out for stuff like that, but you — " he laughed, " — I see you having all kinds of fun. More than most, you have the talent to be great."

"So do you," I argued, batting my red eyes against the rapid flashes reigning over Shizume. "Yours is just a different kind of talent. It's something none of the rest of us has."

"Oh? What's that?"

"You have heart," I said, smiling up at him.

Tatara met my smile with his, and as he did, the flashes ceased a little too abruptly for a lull. The night turned all at once to silence, and before we had a chance to look, to frown, to wonder what had happened, I was seized with a tight, excruciating pain inside my chest. I clutched the ruffled frills about my shawl and tried to scream but all that came was ripping, tearing agony inside.

Deep within, I felt them; eerily they were close. More than that, I sensed a wave of dire apprehension – something else both turbid and elusive coming into play, then driving its way off into the darkness of the night. The Shadows followed, all of them a seeming band of power circling the air. Every pitter-patter of their movements wrung like iron fists upon me. The weight was overwhelming and I lost my sense of balance. I began to topple forward, but Tatara caught my arm. "Anna!" He cried in still the gentlest of tones. "Anna, what is it?"

"Something's wrong," I struggled out, finally managing to breathe, easing slowly back to peace. No sooner had I started to continue when, trilling out a melody, Tatara's phone rang.

"Yes?" He answered, making slow to rise while still maintaining one firm hand along my arm. "Oh. Oh, I see." He looked at me. We shared a nod: my episode had passed. "Got it. Okay, thanks." Hanging up he said, "It seems the outsiders escaped Scepter 4's custody. The Blue King got the call in the middle of his conversation with King — "

_"Conversation?" _I thought inwardly.

— and the minute King found out, he bolted."

At this, he shook his head, calling up what seemed to be a momentary flutter of hilarity. "Leave it to King to be dramatic only when it's least convenient — just when everyone was having such a pleasant evening, too."

My eyes widened. "Mikoto's gone?"

"It looks like it's all over for tonight. We better go on home." He smiled and, sensing my concern said, "Not to fear, Princess. I'm sure he'll meet us there."

I could tell that he was being hopeful, but deep down, he knew as well as I that Mikoto wasn't coming home. He was going after them.

I'm not certain why I did what I did next, nor why I hadn't done it long before. I found myself unnaturally downtrodden, though not so much with sorrow that my lovely red had gone off in the night in search of Midnight Shadows to incinerate. What I felt was shame, and sheepishly, I stole the lower hem of Tatara's coat as he began to turn and lead me from our perch.

"Tatara," I said, staring at the ground.

He turned expectantly, and when I didn't finish, he slid down low before me, glancing up at me. "What is it, Anna?"

Everything about him was disarming, particularly up close, and I found a sense of warmth and further guilt that came by way of several tears that trickled down my cheeks, which Tatara swept away in one full swoop of his soft, ringed fingers.

"Tatara," I repeated, "I have something to tell you. I didn't think it would matter to you, but still… I should have told you a long time ago: about the people Mikoto's chasing: about me…" My voice had narrowed down into a whisper and I dipped my features further toward the ground, my chin set hard upon my chest.

I was startled then when, in the midst of my solemnity, Tatara ran his fingers through my hair, drew my face to his, and looked me in the eye. "You already did," he said.

Shocked, my lips quivered open. "W-what?"

He hummed a tender chuckle, thumbing both my cheeks. "And you're right," he said. "It doesn't matter a bit. Wanna know why?"

I blinked a wide-eyed question and he smiled. "Because you are, and will always be my princess, Anna. That will never change."

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Chapter Seven: Angle of Truth


	7. Chapter Seven: Angle of Truth

K: Midnight: A K Project Fan Fiction

Chapter Seven: Angle of Truth

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_June 8, 2009_

I was seated inside Homra, my feet dangling at the bar. Izumo had procured for me a sundae ceremoniously topped with my signature supply of bright red cherries, one for every year I'd been alive (or so he thought), with the rare addition of an eighth cherry on this particular occasion. I found this somewhat strange. It was not yet my birthday — far from it, in fact. I thought perhaps it was a mistake, a simple slip of the finger I was not at all averse to savoring as readily as every other cherry piled high atop the mounds of chocolate ice cream and a dollop of whipped cream.

"Ah! There you are, Princess!" I heard Tatara calling out behind me, and before I had a chance to turn, his face appeared beside me at the bar, his elbow nudging mine. "I've got a present for you," he said, sending me a wink. Then, from out of nowhere — and I say so quite deliberately, for truly, I could not have guessed where in his slim white button-up he hid the thing — he ushered out a dainty oval jewelry box: crimson, velvet, beautiful and pure. "Happy Half Birthday!" He declared, raining smiles down upon my flabbergasted countenance. I didn't even know that such a thing as a half birthday had existed until then.

My own red stare (I'm sure) was astronomical, and gently, I deposited my spoon into my sundae bowl, accepting Tatara's gift as though, if handled incorrectly, it would surely disappear.

"Tatara," I managed to convey, too flushed and full of happiness to say more. I stared down at the brilliance of the box, moved beyond compare, and lifted up the lid.

"I know how much you love those pretty cherries on your sundaes," he informed me. "So naturally, when I saw these, I just couldn't help myself. I knew they had to be yours."

Resting in the box atop a lovely satin pillow was a set of crystal marbles of the most intrinsic red I'd ever seen.

Tatara scrunched his shoulders, eyeing my reaction. "Do you like them?" I sensed a bit of bashfulness parading in his voice.

"They're just like Mikoto's red," I said, smiling down at them. I knew that in that moment, I could very well have cried.

"They're _exactly _like his red," Tatara smiled, "because they _are_ his red!" I bolted my attention onto him. "King put a pinch of his own flame in there: a little present just for you. Believe it or not, it was his idea. He certainly knows how special you are — as if there were ever any doubt."

I picked one up as carefully as possible and held it to the level of my eye, peering through the red to look at him. As I did, my lips became and O and I consumed a little gasp. "Tatara, I san see you!" I exclaimed.

"I should hope so!" He said, laughing. "They're made of glass, after all."

I shook my head. "No, I mean: I can see your color!"

Tatara's face lit up. "Really? Well that's wonderful! What a nice surprise!" Then he hummed a bit, tapping his long finger on his chin while staring into space. "I wonder if King knew that would happen, though judging him, he probably didn't. So then that means you can see things like…" he turned to look at me, "the color of my eyes?"

I nodded with a tiny little "Mm-hm."

"And my hair?" He asked, pointing to his head.

Once again, I nodded.

"And what about this?" He asked, holding up the little round medallion strung about his neck. "And the color of that chair over there? And the labels on the bottles at the bar?"

"I can see all of them," I answered, and then my own excitement wained as shyness took its place. I held the marble back and looked at him without it. "But I don't know which is which," I confessed. "I've never seen them all before. I don't know which is blue or green or purple or yellow or any other color: only red."

"Leave that to me!" He cheered, hopping off his stool. "I'll teach you every color in existence, just you wait! Here, come with me!" He whisked me off my chair, through the bar and out the door, then all about the city, pointing every color out and naming them for me.

He took me every day for weeks, showing me the sights with the added element of color and quizzing me on everything I'd learned. Soon, I understood both color and its meaning; and even now, if ever asked, I still can tell you every shade persistent in a face and what those colors mean.

For instance, I can tell you that the warmth of caramel basking in the irises of Tatara's eyes transformed the very nature of the mind and of the body, causing both the feelings of stability and peace, while golden chestnut tones pronounced within his hair conveyed the abject friendliness, steadfastness and dependability symbolic of his character.

Meanwhile, all the yellows, rosy apricots, and tender hues of orange invested in his features shared a fresh and happy, joyful spirit: one of clearest loyalty and honor and no small degree of energy and youthful optimism; but above all, they conveyed to one the feeling of remembrance, and always, I was certain of remembering that lovely face, that lovely soul, that lovely, pure existence that was Tatara.

Weeks soon passed, expanding into months. The summer came and went and autumn faded quickly into winter with the first few flakes of snow that littered every surface of Shizume.

One particularly blustery day in January, whilst sitting at the bar beside Mikoto on the one hand and Izumo on the other, Tatara having swapped his place to fix us up a drink, I drew a precious marble up and peered out at the room. By then, I'd come to realize that the world imparted more to me when looking through my marbles. Oftentimes I saw what kind of day it was, what good and bad persisted in the world that might invade upon our lives. Izumo said I had a sibyl's eye, which I admit, I rather liked.

I saw the new boy, Akagi Shōhei, trailing after Saburōta through the door into the bar, and found myself disclosing in a whisper to Mikoto how exceedingly boring he appeared when I observed him through the glass. Mikoto seemed to think that this was funny and he snickered out, "You said that already," as he lit a cigarette with a languorous whisk of his finger.

I kept on with my careful observations, though a moment passed, as did the pair of clansmen to a booth across the bar, and I noticed that my vision through the marble ceased to be a bright and airy scene but a grey and cloudy mess as like a storm: the very one that billowed on outside. It was as though somehow, a rain was pouring down inside the glass and that, at any moment, rumblings of a thunderclap might shatter it outright.

As if by way of a signal, the melodious chime familiar to Izumo's PDA rung first in muffled tones, then limpid crystal resonance on breaching the silk folds if his inner left-breast pocket.

"Yeah?" He answered mildly.

Just then our vanguard, Yatagarasu, came charging through the door with Rikio beside him, together with Masaomi, Yō and Kōsuke behind. All of them were drenched.

"Hey Mr. Mikoto! Mr. Kusanagi!" Misaki called out, clearly unencumbered by the icy rains despite the other three.

Izumo held a finger in the air, leaning further in to better hear the call. Mikoto dipped his head back, staring at the ceiling. He breathed a wave of smoke up in the air.

"Uh-huh. Yeah. Alright," Izumo mumbled. "Thanks for the help." A minute beep concluded the exchange. "Alright Yata, tell me you got something," he said, tilting his exhausted head as Tatara slid a whiskey by his arm.

"You bet we do," Misaki answered, darting off a roguish grin. "You remember those assholes who tried to cross us a couple weeks ago? The ones who smuggled all those guns in without tellin' us? Well it looks like they were working with a group of outsiders tryin' weasel their way into Tokyo; and they were bein' all secretive about it, like they didn't want anyone to know." He humphed. "That was their first mistake."

Izumo downed his glass, depositing it gently on the counter into Tatara's willing grasp. "Let me guess: these outsiders've got some special powers, am I right?"

Misaki grinned again. "Bingo. Seems that in exchange for weapons, these outsiders were able to make it into the city undetected. But that was two nights ago."

Cautiously I peered up at Mikoto. Still he seemed disinterested.

"If it weren't for more of those guns they traded showin' up in some undercover dealings in Shizume earlier this morning," Misaki went on, "we would never have gotten our hands on the location of the smugglers' current base of operations." On saying this, he paused, an unaccustomed air of terminality encircling him.

Reaching for another glass of whiskey from Tatara, Izumo seemed annoyed. "It's not like you to hold out, Yata."

Misaki chuckled, his grin contorted upward to one side. "Of course not."

"Well?"

"We lit up the place," he uttered proudly, "but not before we had a little chat with a couple of the ringleaders of that smuggling operation — which is now no longer runnin,' thanks to us." Again, another smile, this one playfully malicious.

Izumo sent a covert eye around me to Mikoto; I looked too. Mikoto hadn't budged. His head still tilted upward toward the ceiling, only then, his eyes were closed.

"And?" Izumo asked.

"_And_ it turns out the outsiders don't have just any powers: they match the description we gave 'em, just like you said they would. I bet you more'n anything they're the same guys we've been searchin' for since a year ago. After all the trouble they caused the last time, I'll be damned if we don't get another shot at 'em! And now's our chance!" There was a general grunt of approval from the others and Misaki's brazen look grew more intense.

"Izumo," came the dreary voice of Mikoto, eyes still closed. "Who were you talking to?"

There was a heavy stagnancy as Izumo lit a cigarette, breathing in and out a giant cloud of smoke. Leaning back against the bar, he said, "My sources shared some intel on a pretty hefty string of disturbances in Hisaharu over the past two days," he said, eyeing Misaki.

Misaki darted his eyes open with perception. "Hisaharu? You mean they've been hiding in that shit hole for two days and we didn't even know about it? Hell, that's Homra's territory!"

Masaomi slowly stepped up to the plate, countering Misaki's indignation with a mild disposition. "Mr. Kusanagi, did your pals in the underground have any info on the kind of guys we're dealing with? I mean, who even are they? Other than outsiders with dark auras."

Again, Izumo flashed a scanning eye upon Mikoto's eerily lethargic face no longer paying attention but rather focused on accepting from my hand a glass of bourbon Tatara gave to me to give to him.

"If these guys managed to smuggle themselves into Tokyo _and _hide out in our territory without us finding out about it for two whole days," Masaomi pointed out, "doesn't that mean they're guys we need to strategize on taking down properly?"

"The hell you mean 'properly?'" Misaki shot back, irritably confused. "It doesn't matter who they are. They assaulted Homra, so we've no choice but to turn 'em into ash! There isn't any point in knowing worthless shit like that that's not gonna change the fact that we're just gonna burn 'em anyway."

"All I'm saying is, if there's something useful we should know on how to bag 'em, I'm all ears."

Kōsuke held a finger out, motioning agreement. "Dewa's right; we need a plan."

"Yeah, like _how_ we're going to turn 'em into ash when we already tried with no effect," came Yō's especial pessimism to accompany Kōsuke. "Or did you forget that part, Yata?"

"Yeah and then how they just disappeared without a trace," Rikio pointed out rather stupidly, and Misaki waved his bat above his head. His patience (what small portion he possessed) was thoroughly inflamed. "Well if you actually took the time to take your damn chopsticks out of your mouth every once and a while, then just maybe your stupid ass — "

Amidst the clamor of their argument, Izumo leant his elbows on the bar, bending back to catch Mikoto's eye, which had, at last, compelled itself to look at him. In a bit of a prying tone — quiet, lest the others overhear him — he asked, "You wouldn't happen to know anything about it, eh Mikoto?"

Mikoto bore intently on his cigarette, yet that was all it took.

Izumo cocked his head back to the others. "Alright boys," he announced. "Why don't you guys make yourselves scarce, okay? You, too," he said, addressing Shōhei and Saburōta, still seated in their booth. "All you idiots around, we won't get any decent customers — except for you Yata; you stay; and Kamamoto too."

"Why don't you three help me in the kitchen," Tatara proposed to Masaomi, Yō and Kōsuke, and the group, without a word — in fact, they seemed relieved — trailed one-by-one behind the bar and through the kitchen door. Meanwhile, Shōhei and Saburōta, clearly having a one-sided disagreement, took their conversation to the upstairs living room.

It was then when Mikoto finally pried himself up off the bar and rose, awaiting my dismount that came as one small leap and ended in a pair of high-pitched clicks as my red heels collided with the floor.

I snatched his wrist and followed as he drew across the bar and sat along the couch. As for me, I sat myself with diligence before him, his knees on either side. Mikoto didn't mind. In truth, he seemed expectant, and before I even finished settling in, he ushered forward, draping both his arms around my shoulders, crossing them and pulling me inside.

The others took our queue and filed over, and when at last, the bar was clear aside from those instructed to remain, Izumo strode around the room, combing his long fingers through his hair. "Alright, Mikoto." He stopped to face the king. "It's time."

The pair, Misaki and Rikio, were noticeably anxious, though it showed more greatly in the face of Misaki, whose scowl was deeper than before. He tapped his bat into his palm and called out, "Yeah, what are we waitin' for? Let's go fight those guys!"

Mikoto plopped his chin atop my head and dryly asked, "What's wrong, Izumo? Losing faith already? I'm beginning to think you don't trust me."

In that instant, Misaki shot an urgent glance between the two, his face contracted with alarm. "Wha — ?! I mean — of course we trust you, Mr. Mikoto! We just thought — !"

Izumo held a hand to stop him. "Alright, Mikoto. Care to fill us in?"

I could feel Mikoto's grip intensify around me and I drew my little hands up to the place where they entwined, nestling my fingers in between his wrists.

"You wanna know why I'm not rushin' to go after 'em; why I'm lettin' a group of outsiders roam around our territory like they own the place, is that it?"

"Figured you'd have a plan by doing nothing while they're out there terrorizing half the town," Izumo answered. "But if this keeps up, pretty soon we won't have a territory to call our own anymore. Hisaharu's the dumps, true enough, but my guess is: those aren't the stomping grounds they're vying for. They'll spread, and soon, they won't bother being secretive about it. We're going to have to contain the situation and it makes sense to do it now before things get out of hand. So I'm asking you: what's your angle, Mikoto?"

The king sighed. He didn't like to talk. "I'm playing on a hunch."

"A hunch?"

"Tch, some hunch," Misaki grumbled out, then he realized what he said, how loud he said it, and reddened a bit, fumbling his eyes awkwardly to the floor, his fingers, clutching tightly in a fidget to his bat.

Mikoto humphed. "I've been suspicious for a while now and thought I'd draw 'em out. Looks like it worked."

Izumo took another drag, eyeing Mikoto, reading through the words he said to all the ones he didn't, as though the pair were locked inside a silent conversation only they could understand.

"Um, excuse me, Mr. Mikoto?" Rikio rose a hand uncertainly. "What exactly am I missing here? Are they really all that dangerous?"

In response, Mikoto eyed Izumo and Izumo understood.

"Yeah, they're that dangerous," he answered, glazed eyes staring through Mikoto. "My guess is they're looking for something. And seeing as how they seem intent on turning over half of Tokyo — particularly places closer to home — they know generally where to look, which makes them even more dangerous. He inhaled long and breathed out, "At least that's what my sources say — that, and my own vague intuition. They've got a bit of confidence and it's beginning to show, which (I'm sure) is what you're bankin' on," he said to Mikoto.

"But what exactly are they looking for?" Misaki posed. "If we know that at least, we can make sure they don't get it, or else lure 'em in by using it as bait — the sooner we can burn 'em all to hell."

Again, Mikoto said nothing, a silence that conveyed the simple message to Izumo that he didn't want to talk about it, or rather not for the other two to hear.

Izumo crossed his arms. "Regardless of whether we know or not, you've got that figured out, don't you, Mikoto?" Again, silence. "Your plan is to do nothing until whomever their leader is gets comfortable enough to make a move, is that it?" Still, no answer came, but Izumo didn't mind. He'd known Mikoto long enough to be his voice and play his thoughts out to the rest of Homra in such a way as to make everybody happy, even if the truth itself were not entirely disclosed. "Aren't you worried about Scepter 4 getting involved?"

"Let 'em," Mikoto answered, and Izumo rose his chin, straightening his glasses. His cigarette, then wedged between his fingers, issued out a dancing trail of smoke into the air.

"So Munakata comes in, stirs things up; and if these guys are smart, they'll leave, and Scepter 4 will have successfully disposed of them for us." He smiled satirically. "How nice of them."

"But those bastards!" Rikio hollered in complaint. "Taking a piece of what's rightfully ours — and on our own turf, too!"

Misaki cocked his head and gave another swing of his bat, landing it firmly in his hand. "Yeah, I say we burn 'em now."

"However," Izumo said, ignoring them, "if they're serious — which it looks like the are — they'll stay, but they won't be able to do whatever it is they're planning because by then, they'll have the Blues to worry about. That's when you come in and make your move: while they're all battling it out. No one would expect it from a guy who hasn't shown the least bit of interest up until then. According to everyone else, you haven't have cared enough to act so far, so why start all of a sudden?" He gave a brief pause. "That's how you plan to do it."

I felt Mikoto bob his head into a nod. "That's the idea," he said, at which, his sleepy gaze fell on Misaki. "You think you boys can hold out a little longer?"

At this mere word from his beloved King, Misaki's irritation washed away. He sent a willing fist up in the air, his solemn oath to Homra. "Anything you say, Mr. Mikoto!" Rikio, too, produced a similar gesture — though with less invigoration — paired with something in between a grunt and the word, 'Yeah.'

"Right, then, you boys just get back to what you're doing," Izumo said mechanically. "And don't go chasing trouble 'til you get the word, okay Yata?" He turned his sleepy features to the vanguard. "I'm counting on you," he added with what I sense was feigned emotion.

"You got it, Mr. Kusanagi!" Misaki announced, veritably moved. "Let's go, Kamamoto!"

"But Yata, it's snowing outside!"

"I said 'let's go,' idiot! We'll get some food, so don't worry about it." He yanked Rikio by the collar and the pair strode through the door, leaving Izumo, Mikoto and I alone.

Izumo took a final drag of his cigarette and flicked the butt into the air. I watched it self combust and dissipate without so much as a trace of ash.

"Now that it's just us," he said, taking out his pack of cigarettes, but he slowed his progress to a halt. "Unless, uh…" and his eye roamed down to me.

"It is," Mikoto answered, signaling my pre-approved inclusion.

Izumo showed no sign of affectation as he drew another cigarette and held it to his lips. He searched his pockets absently for his lighter but Mikoto made another casual flick and a small red flame appeared along its outer end, sending up steady line of smoke into the air.

"Thanks," he said, sitting opposite us. "Now, then," he began, but stopped as I reached out to him, pointing to the fag. Izumo looked at me, then downward to the cigarette and, perceiving with a sigh of defeat, proceeded to hand it to me.

I took it from him, holding it maturely in my fingers as Mikoto knelt beside my face and closed his lips around it.

I saw Izumo fixate on the act, though he blinked and it was gone, his features falling back to his innate look of indifference.

"Now, then," he resumed, reaching for his pack. "What is it you're not telling me? I can read you pretty well, Mikoto, but even I can't see what's going on in there." He nodded, referencing Mikoto's thoughts. "It must be pretty serious for you to keep it bottled up like this; but whatever it is, I want you to trust that I can handle it; you always have before."

"This time, it's not mine to trust you with," Mikoto answered, and I felt a sudden stillness start to creep into the room, furthered by Izumo's puzzled features as he tried to comprehend.

Meanwhile I could sense Mikoto struggling internally. His walls went up and everything about him felt protective to the point of being angry. Gently, I responded with a squeeze against his arm.

Just like that, the tension disappeared. He knelt his head and sighed against my neck, then hugged himself more thoroughly around me, poutingly, as if to say, "I wanted this to be _our _secret." But that, of course, was stupid and he knew it.

"Fine," he grumbled out, inciting a small, shifting blink from Izumo. Then nodding down to me, he said, "It's hers."

* * *

Chapter Eight: The Shadows


	8. Chapter Eight: The Shadows

K: Midnight: A K Project Fan Fiction

Chapter Eight: The Shadows

* * *

_January 2, 2009_

Shizume glittered wistfully in the dark, reflective from the rain, monochromatically clean: a fresh cool scent wafted through the pristine air to me. I shivered, though it was not an unwelcome shiver. Rather, it conveyed to me the feeling of dispelling something old: a dreary fabric, making way for fresh new folds of silk that slid against my skin like water over glass.

The rain had all but fallen in a downpour moments prior, and nothing but a drizzle pattered down in airy pellets on the hood of my metallic-lustred raincoat blending in with mirrored stone and windows, pale against the moon.

My steps, a clicking resonance across the tightened echo of the night, were all that I could hear aside from those slight, misting raindrops tapping on my jacket, and the whooshing hum of sweet precipitation twirling through the air.

The city lay asleep, or so I had assumed. I sensed a presence lingering above me, then behind me, then intrinsically beside me.

"What are you doing out here all alone?" A voice addressed me. So near it was, it seemed as though my hood were not a barrier between us. I caught a warmth of breath along the nipping chill that numbed the tri-pierced edges of my ear.

My boots came to a moderate, splashing halt amidst a shallow puddle on the pavement. Turning, I discerned a crafty smile staring down at me. "I could protect you, you know," it said.

Another presence rose, then another, and still yet another, creeping from the shadows, and while I could not see them, my eyes shifted side-to-side, sensing the emergence of an aura. Somehow it had changed from what I knew of it before. It wasn't quite the same, their coming there to me. Despite their oaths conveyed much like the one the voice had made, I did not feel protected nor assured. On the contrary, I felt unequivocally detained, stuck, somehow locked away; the air did not feel so refreshing anymore but cold, biting, weighing me with sudden apprehension. _Is this their doing?_ I wondered, shrinking inwardly.

I peered out at that same familiar face belonging to the voice, the roguish grin encompassing a devious expression all too eager to prevail on me an imp-like disposition ever-wavering as the wind: a creature well-acquainted with the artistry of vacillating precepts and perceptions.

I then understood, frowning into lifeless flashing eyes. "Why are you doing this?" I asked, and the voice erupted in a laugh, a mocking laugh, a laugh that said, "Oh dearest one, but don't you understand? I am doing this — _we_ are doing this — because it is _you_. It is as simply put as that."

An inner shudder chilled me to the bone — this time not a welcomed chill but sharp and uninviting.

My hands balled into fists inside my pockets, slowly burgeoning with darkness, power icily enraged and rumbling into being. Without a word, I drew them out, igniting shards in screeching waves as that of shattered glass: streams of polished onyx, inky coils: glorious translucence in the dark.

I took off in a run, zipping through the streets and splashing over puddles mimicking the sky. My hood was whisked away and all the long white tresses of my hair blew outward in a flourish, caught up in the breeze.

I was grateful for the dark, for winding, branching streets as like a maze: a web of narrow alleyways and alcoves strewn about the city; though I, a rat that scurried through whilst others quickly followed: the thought of this did little to revive me of my confidence.

The fog of thickening mists gave way to hollow echoes that pronounced the rhythmic panting shedding little clouds of breath into the air as I ran first down one long alleyway, then up a narrow star, round a curvy lane; and then the voice appeared again as though it never left me but had kept with me the length of my retreat.

"Anna," it whispered long and tauntingly, as though it sang a strange and somber song: a song to be the telling of my end.

Faster I commenced, my features narrowed sternly, focusing ahead.

I rounded a sharp corner and I drew a startled breath, careening to a halt as I invaded on a gloomy dead-end lane with nowhere left to turn, the others — figures formerly concealed — appearing there before me.

I darted looks from one to all — their features masked against me — whirling back to face the voice, the effigy of bleakness in humanity, the featureless expression bearing those same dreaded, lifeless eyes upon me.

No sooner had I done so than my aura turned against me; an arctic fire catapulted onto me, forcing its way into me: a searing pain bereft of restoration; a draining, life-sucking void that sought to mute my own existence from the world.

I might have screamed; the pain was unimaginable; and then my eyes were sealed and opened once again, a very real, pervasive cry imprinted on my lips as I came vaulting up in bed.

Mikoto sat beside me, calm, repressed, his steely gaze upon me. Tatara stood behind him, elbows lightly resting on my bed's wrought iron frame, looking on concernedly.

There was a heavy silence, stern, contemplative, revolving around Tatara and Mikoto. Neither seemed surprised by what had happened. A minute pause ensued, whereafter Tatara's voice took on a sober undertone. "King," was all he said, but that one word was loaded and Mikoto's brow intensified.

"Yeah," he answered, almost grumblingly, as though Tatara had just asked him for the hundredth time to finish some small chore he kept on putting off; yet looking out at him, I knew that just the opposite was true. It wasn't out of carelessness that led him down the pathways of neglect, not in this instance at least.

Meanwhile tears of fright, relief, and fading pain had wet my cheeks considerably and I pulled a frilly sleeve up, wiping them away. "I…I'm sorry," sniffled, breathing shakily in and out.

"Why are you sorry?" Tatara asked. His brow was sated earnestly.

"I…I don't know, I just — "

" — They're getting worse," Mikoto broke in, gruff, tasteless, inciting a small frown of disapproval from Tatara. However, Mikoto wasn't looking at him. Eyeing through my sleeve, I found his sights were set on me.

He looked tired: deepening shadows lingered under hard-set amber eyes, evidence that he had dreamt it too, just like all the other dreams and all the terrors gripping my subconscious, the pain, the fear, the agony I felt: he felt them too, however fiercely, however equally, as though the endless nightmares had been his as well as mine; yet he had woken first, as had he every time. He bore a greater strength to ward against the pain unlike my frail, decrepit self. I was not a king.

Mikoto ran his fingers through the mess of fiery hair atop his head, the kind of unkept hair one gets through constant tossing, turning, spending countless nights awake in bed.

He exhaled long.

"Do you think you can handle this?" Tatara asked, but Mikoto didn't answer; nevertheless, Tatara gave a nod, lifted graceful elbows from the bed frame, and departed from the room.

I peered up at Mikoto, but he'd since turned away, picking out the unlit cigarette he kept behind his ear. Even so, through half-sealed lids, I knew that he was thinking, thinking about me, the dreams, the pain transcending memory into trenchant physicality.

A spark lit up his fingertip, his features basked in momentary light — a burning, glowing, scarlet light — and sunk back into darkness dimly lit by narrow streams of moonlight raining inward through the window on the far side of the room.

"Is it gone?" He asked. He meant the pain. Waiting a moment, he looked at me. I nodded.

"Is yours?"

He blew a train of smoke. "No."

I frowned, a bit perplexed. He merely stared down at his cigarette, drew it from his lips, and watched it as he twiddled it around between his fingers, one of them beringed. Once more, he was thinking, thinking how to act, how to make it go away, a patchwork job to settle things until our chance to end it all appeared, whenever that may be.

The Shadows had escaped. Naturally, they sought me out, and when they couldn't find me, they were gone without a trace. Neither did we gain our chance to issue our revenge. They simply disappeared, leaving me to cope with what they'd done.

Three weeks had passed since then, since I first came to Homra, and every night I saw them in my dreams as though they never left but lingered ever after to torment me in some fell and twisted way, to force me to relive what I endured, to witness what they took; and from that night — the night I first arrived, the night on which it happened — Mikoto felt it too. Somehow — we had not yet figured how — the pair of us were linked: a telepathic bridge conveyed to him the images, the memories, the agonies I faced, for weeks and endless nights. On him as well as I, they'd taken quite the toll.

"We may just have to try it," he said to me. "It isn't getting any better by doing nothing."

We had talked about it many times. I had no objections but Mikoto had desisted. He understood my body was attempting to awaken, to take that which it lacked, that which it was destined to receive, but that which had been coarsely ripped away. Mikoto couldn't give it. It wasn't in his power. However, he did (or so we hoped he did) possess a fire passable to quench my poor reaction, my deep, unwanted thirst in my expectancy of power, power that, for all I tried, had failed to come, while growing absence brought me pain instead.

Together, we had feared what it might cost, and he (reluctant most of all) had sought those weeks to circumvent that cost. Yet on that night, both wasted and defeated, without a keen alternative, we forced ourselves to face the only option left before us.

"It's your red," I told him. "Are you sure you want me to have it?"

"That's not what I meant." He looked at me, hard-pressed but composed. "It might kill you, but it also might work. Are you willing to take that chance?"

I nudged a little closer, staring up at him. "Are you?"

Still, he looked at me, though less with his deep scowl but with a face that cried, "Hell no! But it's not my choice to make. It's yours."

I waited a moment, then against our better wishes, I decided. "Do it," I said.

He paused, observing me, (I sensed) half-hoping I might change my mind, yet also eager to do something, anything to make it stop, for we were sorely tired.

I knew we both agreed, even if we failed to say it outright: should the dreams persist and our strange bond remain, to rid ourselves of agony that woke us every night, to sleep without the horrors bearing life-like pain upon us, was surely worth a try.

"If I see it isn't working," he began.

"Don't stop," I said, cutting him short. "The only way it'll work (_if_ it'll work) is if you don't hold back."

I saw this both impressed him and imprinted hesitation on his brow, which only made him scowl the more intensely at his dwindling cigarette. He blinked a long and heavy blink. Like me, he understood: there was no more to think about, however hard we tried. The thinking part was over; the time to act had come.

He drew one final drag, flicked the butt to dust, and blew the smoke out sideways in a swirl that glinted vaguely in the moonlight.

He looked to me, my form, determined, ready, though not at all ready. His palm ignited slowly in a flaming ball of fire.

"Aim for the heart," I said, and his gaze, in heightened focus, followed my direction, landing in a penetrating stare against my chest. I saw his wheels were turning. Still he was uneasy, but he leaned in close, picked me up, and set his flaming aura onto me, the bareness of my skin, his fingers curling upward past my collar bone and resting in a grip along the base of my small neck, my fragile doll-like neck he feared his strength would surely crush.

The ensuing cry was enormous. His hand pressed hard against me felt a real and fervid flame, scorching every part of me, an all-consuming fire burning me to ash.

I believe I may have passed out for an instant, for I saw myself, Mikoto, the pair of us, together in a sea of fervid black, in terrorizing pain, the same pain.

I darted my eyes open, gazing out at him: the red in all its fury latching onto me, his head dipped low, a line of sweat appearing on his temples as he breathed tight, wrenching breaths, bearing lit-up features down upon me. The flames, the aura, hovered low between us.

I writhed inside his hold, yet still, he held me down, firmly lest I keep him from his goal, and gently so as not to shatter me.

Subconsciously, I felt myself lash out at him, my vacancy of power, my body's sickly craving, seeking both to take and to expel. A sudden pulse escaped me, striking at his red, then joining with the red, the two, in equal force, combined against him.

An instant ball of fire shielded him. Barely he contained me and himself, though already it had taken far too long — longer than we thought. What should have lasted seconds then expanded into thirty, breaching forty, fifty, then a minute passed and slowly I descended. I started to decline, to lose myself. My arms, first clinging to his wrist, fell limply in his lap, and I saw through blurry eyes a panic in his own. "Don't," I whispered out against the look I saw him give.

My call, it seemed, had given him new strength, and doubling his efforts, he rained on me a fresh and brilliant fire. I drew a sudden grating breath, my eyes shot open wide against the ceiling as I felt myself contract, as though I'd just been jolted with an exponential force.

Then it came: the flame he bore about himself became my own as well, enveloping the pair of us, then formed to me alone. My body, overflowing with his red, began to lift itself, transcending through the air and out of his embrace.

The red produced a field, roaming all around and through me as one life invades another; and then the red retracted back inside me and I drew a long breath in — the breath of life, it seemed — and felt my weight return. Cast back into normality of consciousness, I fell, captured once again inside Mikoto's outstretched arms.

A moment passed and nothing but our breathing could be heard and felt between us. I smelled the rich tobacco as it came in little waves against my cheek, and I blinked my dazzled eyes to look at him, disoriented, as one who's just emerged from some long, distant dream. "Did it work?" I asked, and I saw his features harden, his eyes grave. "Oh," I said, slumping in his hold.

It hadn't worked after all. I'd not been restored. Still, I was the same, except —

"Did the red help even a little?" He asked.

The red. I felt it burning brilliantly within me: a fire, warm and beautiful. If all else failed, at least I had the red, his red, then also my red. Dimly, I smiled. "The red always helps."

By then, I had no doubt the nightmares would persist. The horrors we both faced, Mikoto and I, would never go away; though somehow I perceived, with Mikoto's red, we held the strength combined to suitably endure them, to sleep, to somehow feel protected. It was not the worst imaginable fate, simply not the fate we'd hoped for.

A gentle knock emitted Tatara and he knelt once more his elbows on the frame, smiling gently, his head dipped in a lovely, comforting sort of way.

"Welcome to Homra, Anna," he said to me, and then he chuckled. "Officially, that is." He didn't know that simply an induction into Homra was the least of our endeavors. "You're absolutely the bravest girl I've ever met," he added, beaming at me. "And look: it seems you really did merit special treatment from the King. Nothing less for a princess, if you ask me."

Again, I smiled weakly, still a little wobbly from exertion, though staring out, the room seemed somewhat different from before. I blinked, then again, and yet the change remained. "It looks different," I said, observing curiously the bed, the walls, Mikoto, Tatara. "It's not so grey anymore; maybe just a better grey: a reddish grey."

A silence followed after, and on Tatara's indication of confusion, Mikoto mumbled quietly over his shoulder, explaining to Tatara that I was colorblind except for the color red.

"Oh!" Tatara laughed with sudden comprehension. "Well then, no wonder you like it so much."

I drew my arms subconsciously before me, scanning up and down, bending them to peer along their backs, then lifted up the covers, squinting at my legs. I hummed dissatisfaction as I reached back up and grasped the lace-trimmed neckline of my nightgown. I plucked it open partly to inspect what lay beneath.

"What are you doing?" Tatara asked me.

"I don't see it anywhere."

"You don't see what anywhere?"

"The flame," I said, frowning down at myself.

"Let me see," Mikoto offered, and Tatara nearly lost his balance on the bed frame.

"King!" He blurted out, desperately affronted, but Mikoto only glared at him.

Turning back to me, Mikoto knelt in close, setting his dark, scrutinizing eyes upon me. I knew that he was looking at me, the real me, a sort of sadness (or perhaps it was longing) present in his face, whereafter, he conveyed to us that Homra's flame resided in my eye.

Leaning back, he humphed. It seemed despite it all, he approved, if for nothing else but for the placement of the flame: embedded in my natural form, a sort of link between the self the others saw and that which only he could see. Because of that, I sensed he was content; yet even that impression – murky as it was – began to fade, reverting to his natural passive gloom, his voice brought low again. "Now move over," he said. "I'm tired."

* * *

Chapter Nine: Homra


	9. Chapter Nine: Homra

K: Midnight: A K Project Fan Fiction

Chapter Nine: Homra

* * *

_December 9, 2008 _

Mikoto brought me down a narrow stair to Homra's central bar, where a slew of rough and somewhat gritty looking young men had gathered, all of them laughing and joking like old pals while a tall golden-haired man in glasses stood behind the bar, seemingly above them yet engaging all the same.

Gradually advancing at Mikoto's lazy pace, I found myself entirely aware that I was not at all a tall and powerful woman (or at least tall_er _to make my lack of an aura seem a little less deplorable). I had no charm to lure them with, no might with which to say, 'I'm frightening. Stay away, lest you be stricken by my wrath!' I had nothing of the sort. I had (and, in my mind: _was_) nothing. Involuntarily, I had stooped (as if my imp-like self could not descend another inch), for I greatly felt the small, delicate child that I was; and without a thought, I snatched the lower hem of Mikoto's jacket. He shifted me a curious glance, impressed that I appeared as that which I had planned, yet somewhat entertained upon discovering that what I'd done was not by my design, but purely by accident.

"Just as I suspected of you, Mikoto," said the man behind the bar. "I see you went and stole your chance to ditch the rest of the boys. Here, I thought you'd come to take a nap, but I see you've got a friend with you," he said, dropping his attention down my microscopic frame hiding behind Mikoto. He chuckled. "Gotta admit, that's not the sort of friend I would have pegged you bringing here. I'd've thought, _If anyone, Fujishima'd be the one to do that sort of thing_. Not that I'm complaining, of course. We could use a change of scenery."

As he spoke, the others turned and stared, every man surprised that I, a little girl who looked no more than seven years of age, was present in a bar frequented chiefly (I imagined) by a gang of street thugs.

In the midst of these, however, a bright and unconventionally normal-looking man comparatively waltzed into view, sending off a theatrical wave that ended in a bow. "Alas! A person whom I might endeavor to befriend!" He exclaimed, smiling vigorously at me. "And a Princess, no less!"

"Take it down a notch, will ya, Tatara?" A slender teenager in a beanie berated him. "We're not all characters in some lame-ass play, right Saruhiko?"

The somber character in black whom the beanie-boy referred to as Saruhiko, didn't say a word, despite an impromptu nudge by his combative, yet otherwise amicable companion.

The animated one thus defined as Tatara simply beamed at me. There was something about his eyes and the gentle nature of his features, the way his hair fell down about his face and the overall keenness of his stature, that told me he was good. Already, I knew that I liked him.

"Who is she, your sister or somethin'?" A different man, the only heavy set one in the room, remarked.

"Don't be an idiot, Kamamoto," the one in the beanie snarled. He issued a swift punch to Kamamoto's arm, this one clearly centered on aggression. The man let out a sudden grunt of pain. "If Mr. Mikoto had a sister, don't ya think he would have mentioned her by now? He wouldn't keep a secret like that from us! Isn't that right, Mr. Mikoto?"

"But of course, Yata," the man behind the counter answered, a bit of drollery in his voice. He picked a whiskey glass from below the bar and ran a towel over it, polishing it clean. "Mikoto's not the type to keep that kind of valuable info hidden from a group of upstanding guys like you, eh Mikoto?"

Mikoto gave an amused "Humph" and led me into the room.

Tatara met us halfway from the bar and knelt until our heights appeared the same. He looked me in the eye and seemed quite pleased with what he saw. It almost made me wonder for a moment if he saw what Mikoto saw, though something deep inside me told me that it wouldn't have mattered either way if he did.

"You, miss, are in a high-class establishment," he said, "where princesses get extra special treatment. So what'll it be? Juice? A soda? A sundae, perhaps? You know, we make them special here." He leaned in close in a private whisper. "We throw extra cherries on top — the bright red ones, because after all, this is Homra. Red's our specialty here." He winked, making me blush. "So how about it?"

I couldn't help but smile, happy as I was to be a prisoner of such spirited eyes as those that looked at me.

I nodded, suddenly bashful, and he took my hand in his, leading me (after a brief, affirming head-cock from Mikoto) to the bar, and to a stool I realized I could not attempt to mount all by myself. Then, to my surprise, I felt myself ascending from the ground by sturdy hands, depositing me swiftly with a plop atop the stool.

The sudden act surprised me, and I thought at first that Tatara had plucked me off the ground. Peering back, I found it was Mikoto, who, on sitting down beside me, shifted me the subtlest of glances. Through this I could see that he was laughing to himself, even more amused on seeing just how flushed I had become.

"One ice cream sundae for the princess," Tatara said to the man behind the bar, and a casual, "Mei Oui," had the four-eyed tender scooping, pouring, dolloping away to my awe and wonderment. Truly, he was a master, I could tell.

My name was promptly asked and given after that. When asked from where I came and why I picked up such an 'unscrupulous character' as Mikoto — Tatara's words, not mine — I answered that Mikoto had, in fact, found me in distress and offered me his aid.

Izumo (for that was the name of the man behind the bar), looked dubiously at Mikoto. "Is that so?" He asked. "You know, they have a word for ruffians like you who pick up unsuspecting females off the street — and kid females at that."

I looked to Mikoto. He knew as well as I that I had sent the probing question onto him, and there, he had to answer.

A brief glimmer of aggravation came my way from him, sent deeper into gloominess at my vague inclinations of amusement, and he answered, "She's a Strain."

Here, Yata (whom I now refer to as Misaki, his first name) stepped close. Meanwhile, the others had dispersed. They must have thought the convoluted presence of so many of their character was daunting to a dainty little lady like myself. I didn't complain.

"Hey, you don't think she's got somethin' to do with those outsiders causin' trouble in Shizume last night?" Misaki posed excitedly. One would have thought he spoke of candy that he'd never had but always wanted to try. "Maybe she knows somethin'!"

Expectantly, he looked up at Izumo; Izumo looked at Mikoto; Mikoto lit a cigarette. Thank goodness for the sundae Tatara snatched and slid before my eyes. He had lopped on seven massive cherries, and just as he had promised, they were unequivocally the reddest of red.

Then — bless Tatara once again! — he interjected. "Shame on you, Yata, for thinking this cute princess would ever get herself mixed up with a group of very _un-_princely-like individuals as those."

I sent a brief, darting eye to Mikoto, and he to me.

"So you didn't burn 'em, eh?" Mikoto asked.

"Oh, well uh — " Misaki began, but Izumo finished for him.

"There'll be plenty of time for that later," he said, inciting tense expressions from Mikoto toward his fag and me to my sundae, but nothing to Izumo's unsuspecting eyes. "Right now, we've got more important things to consider." His features wandered back to me and inadvertently, I crept my eyes to his and found that I was trapped. "From what I gather, this'll be the first of many sundaes I'll be whipping up for you."

"With my auspicious help, of course," Tatara smiled.

Misaki looked surprised — dare I say mortified? — and noticeably blushed. "Uh… A girl? Here? In Homra?"

"Hey, does this mean you'll be joining Homra, little missy?" Chimed a passing young man in a derby. He slung his arm around the then stunned Misaki's collar, and all Misaki did was hum a startled question through the air.

Izumo laughed at this. "If that's what the, uh, 'princess,' wants," he said with a nod of encouragement from Tatara.

I can't deny that inside, I was shocked. Of course, it was I who had proposed the idea to Mikoto in the first place, but only as a cover. It never occurred to either of us (for, glancing up at him, I saw in him as well) that I might actually become a full-fledged member just to satisfy my urge for secrecy. I suppose I didn't think it could be done, that by some unspoken law, it wasn't possible, or otherwise not allowed. I didn't know exactly how it worked; perhaps Mikoto didn't either, or perhaps he didn't care.

Somehow sensing my uneasiness, the derby man leaned further in and offered me a smile, dragging Misaki in with him. "I think you're really gonna like it here, Miss." Giving Misaki a squeeze, he said, "Hey Yata, show her our pride." Then to me, "If you're going to be one of us, you need to understand that we're a family and that we always look out for each another. Isn't that right, Yata?"

Misaki looked annoyed, but at the mention of his pride, he produced a brazen grin and gladly yanked the neckline of his sweatshirt to reveal a red tattoo in the form of a flame that burned its way along his collar bone. "This is the symbol of our pride," he declared, "a symbol that we'll always stand together, and that we'll always fight for our king, Mr. Mikoto."

I snatched a cherry up and plopped it into my mouth. One might have thought I stuck an apple in it, so huge it felt, and my mouth not nearly adequate enough. I crossed my dangling ankles, thinking a moment. "Will I also have the red?" I asked, staring at the bar.

Tatara chuckled. "I see you like it, huh? Well, of course you'd have it, too! And just look at all the beautiful things you can do with it." He held his hand before me and a swarm of glittering butterflies emerged, fluttering through the air and circling around me. I stared at them in wonder. My eyes — clearly larger than my pathetic excuse for a mouth — spoke wonders and he laughed. "You see? There's more to having power than simply using it for destruction, as I keep telling these guys," he said, sending out accusatory stares across the bar. "And you'll get to decide that, too, Princess. So what do you say?"

I felt a sudden rush of warmth, as though the red were already inside me, and I glowed a happy glow that showed itself to Tatara, Izumo, Misaki, and the man in the derby (whose name, I later learned, was Masaomi). "I'd like that very much," I nodded, doing my best to avoid whatever glare of chastisement I could only guess Mikoto sought to give me in that moment.

"Wonderful!" Masaomi smiled, and, turning round his shoulder to the bar, said "Hey guys! Ya hear that? The princess is going to be _Homra's_ princess!"

An instant cheer rung out, surprising me that these same men I deemed as thugs would be so kind and genuine to me, accepting me at once, as though it weren't an issue for debate but rather preconceived, a fact already known that I was theirs; and there, just there, I witnessed for the first time what it felt like to be home.

"Well, I guess that settles it," Izumo said. "Looks like you're stuck with us, Anna."

Tatara, having beamed at me again, set his elbow on the bar, chin atop his palm while redirecting his attention to Mikoto, "Hey King," he said, his voice as like a lion tamer's, soothing, but direct. "Please be graceful with our princess, okay?"

I looked to Tatara, then Mikoto. I sensed a hidden meaning there, but wasn't sure to ask.

"That's right, Mikoto," Izumo agreed. "You might wanna let up a little on this one?" His eyebrows rose, his stare insinuating.

"Why?" Mikoto asked, hardly pressed by it. He inhaled long and blew a swirl of smoke against Izumo. "She's gotta prove she's one of us. If I go giving special treatment, people'll think I've lost it."

Izumo motioned over to me, as though I needed pointing out. "Mikoto, she's a kid."

Mikoto blinked a passive stare. "Oh, really?"

"Now, don't go faking ignorance this time. It's obvious — "

" — How about we decide all this later?" Tatara proposed with a clap, successfully diffusing the situation. "Don't want to spoil our newest clan-princess's appetite, now do we?"

Mikoto humphed and took a drag.

Izumo shrugged and shook his head, turning back to readdress a set of stemware underneath the bar.

By then, I'd picked off all my cherries and began to burrow my way into the large scoops of strawberry ice cream (with the distinct realization of how hungry I was) when I felt Misaki coming up beside me, slowly, as though I'd run away (or worse, eat him) if he dared make any sudden moves.

"So, uh, Anna, um… How old are ya anyway?" He asked, shifting his eyes awkwardly to the floor.

I realized in that instant: for all his ample hoards of aggression, he was frightfully shy of girls. These outsiders — candy, in his eyes — were well and good for him, but in my less-than-four-foot tall presence, all his confidence was gone. I found him utterly disarmed. _This could be fun, _I thought.

"Hmm," I said aloud, tapping my small finger on my chin. "How old do I seem?"

Misaki turned abruptly, mouth and eyes hung open in surprise. "Uh… Huh?" He fumbled out. I merely stared at him, peering hard with interest. In truth, I really was curious.

Misaki's cheeks flushed crimson and I saw behind his terrified expression, a warm-hearted soul. It made me pleased to see it shine so clearly through the rough exterior he posed.

At last, he resigned himself to look at me more fully.

A moment passed. He gave a sigh and shrugged, chuckling with nervousness away from me. "I, uh, I guess I can't really say," he answered. "I don't know what it is, but looking at you now, it's sort of hard to tell. Funny, I-I guess I didn't notice." He stole a glance back up at me and froze, reddening profusely at the little grin I bore. "Oh, crap. Did I say something wrong?" He stammered in a sweat, and I watched his face grow redder as I stuck my finger out and poked him on the nose.

"You're funny, Misaki. I like you," I said in my most unmistakably girlish voice; and just like that, I saw that I'd wholeheartedly confused him.

Happy with myself, I scooped a hearty spoonful of whipped cream and lopped the whole thing in my mouth.

* * *

Chapter Ten: Midnight


	10. Chapter Ten: Midnight

K: Midnight: A K Project Fan Fiction

Chapter Ten: Midnight

* * *

_00:01 December 9, 2008_

_Red. So red. So beautiful. _That's all I could remember at the time: waking to that brilliant shade surrounding me completely, as though nothing else existed in the world, perhaps not even me. But the red: the red, I knew, was real.

I wasn't certain where it came from, nor even what it was — only that it was perfect and that somehow, it had found me. Somehow, it brought me back to life.

I reached a hand toward it, longing to experience its warmth between my fingertips, for even in my place — that place I could not see, nor afterward recall but for the chill that settled there and numbed me to my core — I felt its heat and knew that it was good. I knew that it would soothe me, if only I could bring myself to touch it, to hold it in my arms, as if, by doing so, I'd finally be safe; yet, in my weakened state, my hand fell back against me and the red began to fade. I saw nothing after that.

When, at last, I woke, there it was again: such a pretty red. This time, I could see it far more clearly than before. What once was but a blur had turned into a form: a human form belonging to a man as fierce and otherworldly as the red that had encompassed him.

He lay asleep, waiting for me; but where was I exactly? A bed? And he, seated in a chair beside me, the pair of us inside a room: his room, perhaps?

I rose up on my knees. The bed seemed awfully large; then, so again did he; or perhaps it was myself who seemed quite small against all else inside the room. I thought it strange at first. _But that red. _Again I was distracted. I dared not look away. I'd never seen an aura quite like his, nor nearly filled with rage and savage power. I told myself: _This time, this time I will touch it. I will know for certain how it feels. _

I inched my body closer to the edge and set a tiny palm atop his knee, gently, so as not to wake him. I sent the other in the air, reaching out to him, but why was he so far? And why, my hand, so small? Again, I'd grown confused, yet only wondered vaguely, for my mind was driven solely toward the red. Next to it, to him, observing what I knew to be a force akin to mine, I found myself (by means unknown) inferior, and blamed my ill-perception on that one specific thought: that somehow, he had risen far beyond the limits bound to every other person in the world, along with me.

My hand was almost there. My fingers nearly grasped the object of my suddenly obsessive curiosity; but in that splitting instant, he stirred. My weight, spread thinly on his knee, was unexpectedly cast off. His eyes at once appeared and startled me. I fell, though as I did, I found myself encased, drawn nearer back to him as he, then staring down at me, appeared to glow more brightly than before. The red about his features spread throughout his body, radiating outward as though he himself, the fiery flame, ignited me as well.

Caught within his arms, the object of his gaze, a shuddered gasp commanded me to silence, and all that I could do was stare into the ruthlessness abounding in his eyes, entranced, yet wholly unafraid of what I saw. Equally, he looked at me as though I, too, were just as rare and dangerous as he.

"You… You're like me, aren't you?" Came his low, consoling voice, his words the very mirror of my thoughts. "Or, at least…" He paused, his face intensified. "Huh. That's weird." I eyed him wide and fell at once to nervousness, for he had spoken, all the while scanning me from head to toe and back. "Guess I didn't notice."

"N-notice what?" I stammered out.

"See for yourself," he offered, loosening his hold.

I then commenced to panicking, and in a swoop, I wrestled free of him. My bare feet hit the floor, and as I stood before his seated form, our eyes (to my astonishment) were not of equal distance from the other's. At my full height, and he relaxed within his chair, I found him towering above me.

My heart began to thunder like a hammer in my chest. "How is this possible?" I asked, and at his backward nod, my sight closed in upon a mirror mounted to the wall.

I raced what should have been a single pace (then amplified to three gigantic strides) and came before the mirror, only to retreat again with one long breath of horror that came scratching down my throat. "I…I'm a…" I tried to speak, but nothing came, for staring back at me was not the full grown woman whom I knew myself to be.

My eyes, of deeply potent red, were massive and obtrusive; my skin was pearly white, as was the hair that fell in heaping strands about my waist. These features had not changed. They were, for all intents and purposes, the same, yet starkly out of place and nothing like the memory I had pictured of myself. My body, as I scanned myself, was not yet four full feet in height, nor was it formed as that of a woman's, but of a little girl's.

My face, above all else, was what was strikingly unique, for despite the similarities, it was neither my own face, nor that of a child's, but somewhere in between. My age appeared unnatural and severely indeterminate, while all my power — in fear, I gasped again. My dark, resplendent power, mystical in nature, inexhaustible in worth: it was gone! _So that's why, _I realized. _That's why I feel as small as I appear. _

Driven to a bottomless despair, I found myself lightheaded and I wobbled in my place, my footing falling out from under me; yet once again, the red was there to catch me and he laid me in his lap, holding me and soothing me in silence as the tears began to well and dribble down my cheeks.

"Tell me who did this to you," I heard his voice inside my ear. His tone was stern, demanding, full of anger, yet above all, it was warm. "Tell me and I'll kill them."

He could not see, yet no doubt, he could feel how shocked I was that he, a man I'd never met, would issue such a threat against the people who had wronged me; but then I understood: he did not need to meet me to have known that we were different from the world and thus, entirely the same. He felt the void in me, the absence of my power; and that had been enough for him to seek his own revenge: for me, who could not do it on my own; and for himself, the only one who could have understood.

"Tell me," he repeated, his arms closing in around me.

"My…my clansmen," I whispered.

I felt him tense with rage. Then it donned on him, and I perceived his thoughts, as ever after, I alone could see them when no other person could. "That means…" he began.

"Yes," I confirmed. "I'm not of the seven."

Slowly, he exhaled. I felt his chest relax and his warm breath against my nose. It smelt of cigarettes, though not the noxious scent of them but a sweetness full of musk. "How long exactly?" He asked. "How long have you been a king?"

"Thirteen years," I whispered.

"And before that?"

My forehead dipped in closer to his breast, the cotton of his shirt a gentle softness on my skin.

"I see," he said. "You're a Strain."

I bobbed a little nod.

"If you've been a king for thirteen years, then how old are you really?"

I drew my face to look at him. He seemed sad. "Twenty," I replied, somewhat meekly.

On the left side of his face, I watched his jaw contract. Somehow, this had angered him the more. He asked me, "Why a kid?"

I thought for a moment. "My aura was often called 'Restore.' It was a healing power. It could return all that it touched to any prior state of existence."

He peered at me with interest. "So in other words, it could turn back time."

"Mm," I nodded. "It seems I've been restored to the age I was before I was a king, though I imagine they were planning to go further than that: to a state of nonexistence, I suppose."

His voice then turned emphatic. "They wanted to _erase_ you?" Again, I felt his anger in a boiling rage of fire inching closer to the surface of his red. I closed my eyes, shuddering at the thought, yet thankful for the warmth he gave to counter it.

He then asked my name. "Anna," I replied. "Anna Kushina."

"Anna," he repeated. "You said your clansmen did this to you — turned you into a kid by stealing away your aura." Then, as an afterthought, he asked, "What color is it, anyway?"

I answered sheepishly. "Think of a magic eight ball."

"Huh? Oh, I get it. You're the eighth king. It's black, then?"

Again, I nodded. "It _was_."

"You'll get it back," he said intensely, his grim expression bearing down at me. "I promise. These people — "

"The Shadows," I supplied. "My clansmen are — _were_ — the Shadows."

"That's all they'll be when I get through with them."

"And me?" I asked. "What will happen to me? Will I stay this way?"

He looked at me — a hardened, painful look — and issued out a sigh. He slanted off his features to the side as though the presence of some unseen force had long since weighed him down. "All I know is that you can't just take an aura from a king. It doesn't work like that. Even killing him, his power just goes back to the Slate until it finds a new king."

"Then how come it happened to me?" I pressed him, and all his red peered down and stared at me. I could tell he didn't know the answer any more than I did, try as we both might to understand.

Nodding to my tiny self, he said, "I take it that's what you really look like — the inside part, I mean."

"So it _is_ true, then. You really can see me."

Mikoto looked at me — the real me — and popped his brow approvingly. Even then, I knew what that look meant. "Mmhm," he answered simply.

"Can anyone else?" I asked, hiding a slight blush.

"I doubt it — not unless they're a king."

I scanned away from him, dropping my attention to my nervous fingers fidgeting together. "If at all possible, I…I'd like to keep it that way, at least for a little while."

I then snuck a peak at him and saw him raise an eyebrow at me. "How long is 'a little while?'"

This time, it was I who didn't know, and once more, I diverted my gaze back against the charcoal-colored t-shirt he wore underneath his jacket (if it really was a charcoal-colored t-shirt, for all that I could tell).

"Well, until you're ready," he said, as though I'd given him an answer, "or until we fix this, you can stay with me. I'm Mikoto."

"You're the Red King," I said fondly. As evidence from my smile, it was clear I loved the red, and, looking up, I saw that he was pleased.

"I picked up a strange scent – several, in fact – roaming through my territory like ghosts about the time I found you last night," he informed me. "Your Shadows, I'm guessing? It seemed to me like they were looking for something. I think it's safe to say it was you."

I dipped down lower, shrinking in his arms. "Maybe when they realized I was still alive, they came back to finish the job. But that doesn't make very much sense," I realized, frowning. "I remember clearly: they had already found me. They had me cornered, and that's when they attacked. Against all of them at once, I didn't stand a chance. So how is it I survived?"

"It seemed to me like you'd been hurled into that alleyway I found you in, like you just fell out of the sky and landed there by accident."

I scrunched my brow reluctantly. "That's strange. I don't remember that. I remember they set a trap for me, and even though I ran, they cut me off. Then I remember being jolted with something." My heart dropped at the memory. "They were sucking out my aura."

"That must have hurt."

"Like hell," I said instinctively, and I watched him twitch a bit. I realized how amusing it must have been for him to witness a small child cussing like an adult. "It all happened in a flash, and then…" I shook my head, "nothing. I remember nothing after that."

"You must have blacked out. Sometimes when an aura's threatened, it retaliates. As a last resort before it fully left you — in an effort to save you, I guess — it sent you someplace else, someplace they wouldn't find you, maybe even to me, if it sensed my aura wandering nearby."

"I like that theory," I said thoughtfully.

"Yeah but even still," he went on. "These people…They're going to try again, if what I sensed last night was any hint." He issued out a sigh. It sounded like a growl. "I can't shake the feeling that they've got another reason for it, though – something we're both missing."

I frowned, a bit perplexed. "Isn't it obvious? It wasn't enough to simply strip me of my aura. They wanted my life on top of it. This was all for power."

"I'm not so sure that's the whole story," he proposed. "From what I got, they were pretty frantic, and it wasn't out of greed. Trust me. They were afraid, like whatever they had planned would fall apart if they didn't find you. It may be just a hunch, but — " I could tell he was concerned, " — either way, this might just be the safest place for you until we can figure out what to do."

Just then, a rumbling sounded from below. I shuddered once again, clinging to Mikoto as though clinging for dear life. He didn't seem to mind. In fact, he seemed to like it. He hummed his minor growl again, glancing at the door. "Looks like the boys are back."

Caught inside a sudden sense of urgency, I stood up in his lap. "Mikoto," I said quickly and he turned back round to me. I stared him down intently. "Remember."

"I said I wouldn't tell," he reassured me with a shrug. "But I'm going to need some sort of an excuse."

I drew my shoulders up, squinting at him. "Let them think I've come to join your clan?" I suggested.

Mikoto rose his eyebrows once again. "A little girl?" He humphed. "They wouldn't believe it."

"I'm still a Strain," I pleaded. "That isn't gone. If they see that, then it shouldn't matter how old they think I am, right?" My words, if they had started strong, had dwindled into barely even a whisper.

From the evident scowl I got, I saw Mikoto wasn't entirely fond of this plan. Slowly, he dipped his head back, staring at the ceiling. "I don't know what would stand out more: a little girl on the side of Suoh, or the attention we'd draw with all we'd have to do to keep you hidden. It wouldn't be that big of a deal if we didn't have so much trouble coming from the Blues lately." He propped his arm along his knee, eyeing me reflectively. "And I guess if you're out in the open — secret in tact, of course — we'd have a better shot at drawing out your Shadows — that is, if you don't mind being the bait."

I shook my head. "But won't that put your clan in danger?"

"Don't worry about that," he said, passing off what I assumed to be a valid point as though it didn't matter. "My guys live for that kind of thing."

I inched forward, scrunching my small fingers round the furry collar of his jacket. I knew I wasn't very intimidating, but I thought I'd give it a go. "Please don't do anything reckless just because of me."

Along his cheek, a subtle crease appeared: his own version of excitement. "We'd do it even without you. But you, on the other hand," he said, his tone direct, "if we're going to do this, then aside from when you're with me, you can't be talking like you do."

"H-how do I talk?" I asked, darting back self-consciously.

"Not the way you should. You sound too…superior. Try acting a bit more — "

" — childish?" I shot back, and he paused. He knelt back once again and ran his fingers through his hair.

"Kids aren't old enough to know who they are yet," he explained. "And based off how you look, you know too much."

I slumped. Already, my own plan exhausted me. "At least, if I were taller, this wouldn't be so hard to deal with," I mumbled.

Then, as though confirming my frustration, Mikoto rose and gained his feet, surpassing me entirely. "You were the one who wanted to keep it a secret." He eyed me in a jest, though he could see my confidence was far too badly damaged to reveal myself a failure as a king, at least not right away. I needed time to think, to somehow readjust, to conjure up a plan, and time was what he offered — time and his assistance.

"Just keep it simple," he said in acquiescence to the timid look I bore. "And if you get stuck, I'll help you, okay?" He reached a hand to me. It seemed enormous and enveloped mine completely as I took it. I didn't mind, though. His red was comforting that way. I nodded back. "Okay," I said.

"Alright, let's go. Time to meet the rest of Homra."

"Homra?" I asked.

"My clan," he said, guiding me to the door. "Homra's the Red Clan like your Shadows are the Black Clan."

"Midnight," I said quietly.

Mikoto stopped and eyed me conscientiously. "What?"

I met his gaze, for the first time feeling proud, despite myself, and clearly said to him, "I'm the Midnight King."

* * *

Epilogue: How We Wanted Us To Be


	11. Epilogue: How We Wanted Us To Be

K: Midnight: A K Project Fan Fiction

Epilogue: How We Wanted Us To Be

* * *

_December 20, 2012_

We strolled into his room, Mikoto and I, the pair of us exactly how we wanted us to be. _Finally, _I thought.

"I'm tired," he mumbled out. I couldn't have agreed more. Vengeance always had a way of wearing people out. Of all the time I spent with Mikoto, with Homra, that one truth had stuck with me the longest.

Mikoto sauntered over to the bathroom. _Probably for the best, _I remember thinking. _He's filthy and could use a shower. Though I'm surprised he has the motivation for it._

On his way, he plucked the cigarette from behind his ear and set it on the desk, but stopped as he discerned the gentle click of a lighter, the bursting of a flame, and the hollow snap of the lid. I heard him shuffle back to look at me, no doubt shocked to see me smoking that same cigarette while staring out the window.

I peered around my shoulder, meeting his surprise with kind of mild amusement. Still he wasn't used to seeing me parading as an adult just yet. I found this rather funny.

"Really, Mikoto," I said chidingly. "It's not like you were the only indulgence I was missing out on."

I think that was the first time I could actually see Mikoto's smile ー his mild, brooding, passive grin that wasn't necessarily a smile so much as a slightly upward curl of the left side of his lip. Either way, it was his and it suited him perfectly. Further still, I knew that he'd been saving it for me.

Then came his iconic "Hmph" that was his bustling laugh, at which, he turned again and vanished into the bathroom.

A couple minutes later, I could hear the water running. Not that it was anything out-of-the-ordinary but that somehow I was saddened by it. I think because I knew that there was something I could do about it then. But instead, I just stood there, partaking in what was no doubt the greatest cigarette I had ever had, yet nevertheless wracked with the knowledge that what I should have been doing was something even greater.

Sacrilegiously, I scrunched the half-smoked cigarette into the ash tray and made my way the bathroom.

The mixture of steam and Mikoto's natural heat gave way to a nearly incoherent scene, so I knew he had no way of knowing I was there. Slowly, I undressed and tiptoed over to him. The air was thickly weighted like a blanket, warm, lovely, wrapping me inside.

I could see him then, blurred and hazy, through the glass. His hand was drawn against the wall, his face brought low. His eyes were closed in something of a frown.

Cautiously, I touched the door and slid it open just, glancing down, suddenly shy.

"Um…Mikoto?" I said, peering up to find him staring with a sort of awe and wonderment at me. I'd never seen him give me such a look. I suppose it's how I'd always hoped he'd look at me, and yet I was surprised that it was actually happening.

Unconsciously, I turned my face away from him, stepped inside, and moved to close the door. As I did, he caught me by the arm and pulled me fully in, pressing me against the wall and him against me, both of us silent, breathing heavily. Still, his frown remained, an earnestness pronounced among his features that conveyed to me how serious he was.

Lacing his warm fingers into mine, tightening his grip on me, I saw his stare was stronger than before.

"Can you understand how much I've wanted this?" He asked.

I searched his face and saw it in his eyes. "Yes," I nodded back to him.

"Because you've wanted it too?"

"Yes," I said again.

Amidst the streaming water and the steam, I clearly saw a tear begin to form itself and slip out from the corner of his eye. Drawing near, he dipped his face to mine and softly caught his breath. "Anna," he said low to me, "I love you," and knelt in close to kiss me.

* * *

THE END

_If you love this story, I've posted an extra scene from Mikoto's perspective just after this epilogue. Just click on through. _

_Thanks for reading!_

Extra Scene: Wait for Me


	12. Extra Scene: Wait for Me

K: Midnight

Extra Scene: Wait for Me

* * *

_October 1, 2010_

He could hear his breath whoosh fiercely in and out. It was a lot louder than he remembered – faster, too. He couldn't seem to stop it growing more and more intense. He needed air, but couldn't seem to get enough, no matter what he did.

He stumbled down an alley, gripped the wall in one hand and his chest inside the other. He could always feel the heat of his own fire, but today he felt a sweat as cold as ice begin to rise up from the depths of God knows where inside his furnace of a soul. The burning in his chest was not a fiery one but froze him to the core.

_Huh, that's weird, _Mikoto thought, tensing as the pain coursed like a hammer, sending shock waves through his bones._ Is this that thing that Tatara always talked about?_

He heaved another precious breath, swallowed it, then let it out again, feeling none the better for it.

Mikoto had been trailing passing Shadows since the night atop Shizume, the night he fought the Blues and their insufferable King. Mikoto ducked out early, though. A call to Munakata had informed them both of something that Mikoto simply couldn't lay to rest:

The Shadows had escaped.

Mikoto's jaw invariably tightened_, _the memory just as vivid as the moment that it happened. _The Shadows, _he recalled, clenching his fist deeper to the wall. The stone beneath it cracked._ I have to..._

The freezing burn shot through him once again. Unwittingly, he caved against it, falling to his knees.

_Yeah, _he realized, blinking through the haze of it. _I'm pretty sure that this is what he meant. _A mopy sigh escaped him. _What a pain._

But then the thought of her came flooding back to him, and all those freezing burns became at once a warmth that entered him like nothing his own red had done to satisfy before. It filled him with a softness that belayed his thoughts of bitterness. It lifted him, empowered him. It made him leave behind that brooding air he loved so much.

Again he clutched his fingers in a fist, though not against the wall this time, and not with pain, nor emptiness, with grumbling or despair. No, this time, it was held before him, partnered with a second fist, the pair of them ignited into flames.

"Anna," he said down to them.

The labored breathing stopped, replaced with something shaky like a gasp. His heart beat ever faster and he closed his eyes against it, feeling, listening, as though he sought to hear her voice inside of him the way he always had.

_Wait for me, _he called to her. _I promise I'll come back to you._

The air, by way of answering, came swirling up to him, entering his lungs as though to offer him new life, the life he fully recognized in her. He knew it hadn't come from her; but then, perhaps it had.

Slowly, he regained his feet. _Anna, _he called out again, frowning his eyes open to reveal a heavy stare. The flames he bore spread rapidly to cover him, something of a fierceness in his stature and a longing in his eyes._ I can't let this end, _he said. _I won't..._

_...not without you knowing... _

His chest began to throb again, a fiery red encompassing the pain he felt before, piercing him the more, but with a fervid savagery that spoke of all the things he ever wanted but was too afraid to hope that he could have; yet somewhere in the course of time, those things he was afraid to have had somehow found their way to him. _She_ had found her way to him; and now his only fear was that she'd somehow disappear before he had the chance to tell her.

A hollow breath escaped him, swirling into fumes. _I promise,_ he repeated resolutely to the air. _I promise you'll know everything. _

_So for right now... _

_...for just a little while..._

_...wait for me. _


End file.
